‘UNTITLED - INK ON PAPER’
CHAPTER ONE
The letterbox rattled and Zach bounded down the corridor. Just like an over excited
Great Dane, thought Layla, good looking and oblivious to anyone around him.
Zach loped back ripping open a brown padded envelope.
Kit swallowed a mouthful of milky cereal with a hasty gulp, "Did it come? Is that what
you’ve been waiting for?"
Layla smothered an irritated groan, snapping the newspaper pages straight. It was easier
for Kit to be caught up in his father’s childish enthusiasm, he was ten years old.
"It's come." Zach perched on a stool opposite them, no time to sit down properly before
exploring the contents. He pulled out a printed form and another sealed envelope, a
yellow one, he placed that under his chin as he flicked through two more pages of
instructions.
"So what is this fascinating project?" Layla omitted ‘this time'. Last time it had been
mushrooms. Embryonic fungi occupied every spare cupboard and dark recess. He had
produced an odorous mulch and a tablespoon of edible mushrooms, which he had
ceremoniously sautéed one Sunday morning and unsuccessfully tried to share with his
son.
"This," Zach held up the yellow envelope, "is about the size of the world. The small size
of the world.”
"Seven billion people live on it," Layla muttered, he sounded like he had made the world
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small all by himself.
"And we know what, fifty people quite well? Maybe recognise two hundred? I don't
know,” he said as if him not knowing this fact would surprise anyone, “but I am going to
prove that the rest of those people wherever they are, the ones we've never heard of, that
we never thought we would meet, are closer than we ever imagined. I," he paused, Layla
recognised the important, resonant I, he would repeat it in a second, "I am participating
in a global experiment to prove that we are separated by an astonishing few points of
contact. I have to get this envelope to," he glanced at the letter, "to Helena Consuela who
works in a high street bank in Uruguay," he read the name out like an announcer on a
game show. "I can't have her address and I am not going to Google it. All I have to do is
think of someone I know who might know her or is likely to know someone who knows
her and pass it on. They then think of someone who is likely to know her and send it to
them, and so on until it reaches someone who really does know Helena Consuela
personally and hands it to her. In this experiment we are going to find out how many
times removed we are on average to anyone in the world. It's important!" he protested to
Layla, who put up her hands and shrugged, she had never said it wasn't. "What do you
bet? Ten people, five people?" He paused before uttering the final awesome possibility,
"Three?"
"A lot of people in Uruguay," Layla’s eyes remained determinedly on the newspaper.
Zach secretly made a silly face at her for Kit's benefit.
"Who you going to send it to first Dad?" Eager puppy to Great Dane.
Zach stared at the package of papers as if the suggestion might be there, his face grew
sage. "Absolutely no idea," he pronounced.
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"Well I'll see if there’s someone at school who might know her," Kit picked up his bowl
and dropped it in the sink.
"You've got the idea," he slapped Kit's shoulder, "and don't you forget to enquire at work
either," he waved a piece of dried toast at Layla then crunched it between his teeth.
"Sure," Layla said, oozing disinterest.
"You'll see! You'd be amazed how closely connected even apparent strangers are to each
other."
“Perish the thought.”
The doorbell rang, it was a friend of Kit’s on the way to school. The boy tossed some
water into his mouth from the tap and dried his hands on his trousers. "Time to go."
"Got to go." echoed Zach, puffing his cheeks with air and looking up at his son with a
silly face.
Kit leant forward and they popped their air filled cheeks together.
Layla stood up and picked up his backpack, Kit turned and hefted it onto his shoulders.
A kiss and he was off, wading down the corridor. As he opened the door Layla heard the
shouts of other school children receding down the street. The door slammed and she
thought of Kit's progress, struggling up the road at a jog with the huge bag swinging on
his back, full of essentials, like his Pokemon cards and pencil case, nothing to worry
about except what was for lunch. Then he'd grow up and have to deal with idiots like her
client Mr Carynopolis and Johnny O in the office, to pay the mortgage. Or if he was
more like his father he would fret about…about, and Layla’s smooth train of thought
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stopped. She tried to think what her husband worried about. She looked at his furrowed
brow taking in the details of his Ms Helena Consuela project.
“So what are you doing today?”
“What do you mean ‘what am I doing today?’ he went straight for admonishment, rather
than defensive. “I don’t ask you ‘what are you doing today?’ I know what you’re doing,
you’re going to work and you know exactly what I’m doing.” He pulled on a broad
smile, saying he was only amused by her.
Layla folded up her newspaper, resolutely silent. “It’s not a hobby you know,” Zach
added and for final effect: “It’s art.”
Zach watched as Layla forced a large file into her bag, dropped keys and mobile into the
front pockets and gathered up a laptop case.
“Don’t forget Kit,” Layla called while she grappled with a zip, her bag rested on her
knee.
“I’m his Dad, why’d I forget Kit!” Then he muttered to himself ‘Dad, husband, nanny
and artist’.
“Well have a good one,” she turned round and winked, then swept out the front door.
What the hell was that? Sarcasm, good will or saucy? The latter was unlikely.
Zach listened to the silence settle like a sheet on the house. He listened again. He heard
himself clear his throat, an engine down the road revved, a kid's cry past the front
window and then the fridge hummed, except their fridge fairly motored because the
compressor was on the way out and he just couldn't summon up the interest to call the
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fridge fixer round. He carefully replaced the Ms Consuela papers into the envelope and
left it on the counter next to the debris of breakfast and wandered into his studio.
On the easel was Zach's latest creation ‘The Girl'. It was a sketch of a large scale
painting he was planning that is if Jerry felt he could sell it. But why this picture would
break a trend after all these years he had no idea. Nonetheless he was an artist, and he
would always paint whether it sold or not. Zach liked to think that he was Jerry's one
indulgence to real taste because frankly Jerry represented a good deal of work that Zach
barely recognised as art. Contemporary installations, ego-centric rubbish and a lot of it
had a nauseating macabre twist. "Press on!" he urged himself. Zach was aware he had a
habit of making the odd expletive out loud to himself, he hoped it was normal. He
touched a few tubes of paint, then picked up a brush and flicked the bristles across his
fingers.
Jerry hadn't seen the picture, in fact he hadn't seen Jerry in a long time. He could call
him, or perhaps he should make more progress on the picture, or call the fridge repair
man. He looked at ‘The Girl', tried to focus his efforts, still flicking the dry bristles
across his fingers. He'd give Jerry a call. Besides Jerry had a chrome Bezzera Ellise
espresso machine which despite many hints to Layla remained a source of envy for him.
****
Zach stepped into the gallery. Jerry was leaning back in his white chair at his white desk
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talking animatedly on the phone as if the other person could see his wafting wrist and
rolling eyes. He had his daaarling voice on. Zach took the time to study Layla's old
college friend, an entirely different breed to the mates he had kept up with since uni. His
mates were generally scruffier, more earnest and poorer. Jerry was dressed immaculately
as ever. A black suit and white shirt but nothing ordinary, very Bond Street he guessed.
Zach shoved two fingers into the belt loop of his own scruffy jeans. Jerry gave a wave
indicating ‘two minutes’ with his perfectly manicured fingers. He didn't mock Jerry's
manicure, nothing wrong with a man maintaining some level of personal vanity, he
himself did yoga.
Zach availed himself of Jerry’s superb chrome coffee machine, thoroughly enjoying the
auto-foamer. After his first satisfied sip he turned his attention to Jerry's latest
collection, black structures of indeterminate material in stark relief against the clean
open gallery space. He leant forward to identify the piece he was standing next to. What
exactly was that? Then it became clear, a beak, some crows' feet, feathers in a sticky
heap held together by a coagulated seam of black blood. He recoiled. He glanced at the
title, `Dead birds on dead wood'. He just hoped it wasn't real blood, or at least not real
birds, but he didn't dare ask. As he stepped back something wispy brushed his neck
sending a shiver down his back. A few strands of dry, long hair were dangling from the
main clump suspended by a coat hanger on the ceiling. He examined it closely. It had a
strange sparkle to it, something glinting amongst the strands under the carefully poised
lighting.
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"Finger nails Zach, hair and nails," Jerry said, replacing the phone receiver and resuming
his normal voice, rougher, deeper and absent of darlings. "Draws the eye doesn't it?"
Zach rubbed his shivering neck, revolted. "Each craft for its time," Jerry's voice invited
no derision. "They thought Matisse's Dancers were crude. Now, what have you brought
me today my classical progenitor?"
Zach stared at Jerry feigning offence. Jerry flopped an arm over his shoulder. "Nothing
wrong with classical. It has a certain aesthetic quality that many of my modern pieces do
not, um, aspire to."
Zach held Jerry's gaze for a moment longer, but he could only be fairly sure that Jerry
liked his work. He swung his art bag onto the desk and brought out the half dozen
pieces, mostly still life studies of fruit and vegetables. Jerry made grunts and noises that
generally sounded positive. Then Zach presented the sketch of ‘The Girl'.
"Zach you surpass yourself, this is ahm accomplished." Jerry had a warm crease about
his eyes and a handsome smile that could mean anything from you’re an idiot to this is
remarkable.
"Well hopefully not too accomplished," Zach said taking another cringing glance at the
fingernails snagged amongst the hair.
"No, hopefully not," agreed Jerry. He held the painting in front of him, apparently
scrutinising it with a deep interest. "I don't suppose you've thought about doing
something for me to show at the Art in the Park fair?"
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"This?"
"Now you know the brief...." Jerry put ‘The Girl’ down, methodically squaring the
corners of the picture with the corners of the desk, while he let Zach think about his
suggestion.
Zach refused to be drawn and assumed a position of relaxed confidence on Jerry’s sofa,
expansively crossing his legs for final effect.
"Come now Zach, don't be so stubbornly puritanical, people buy there."
"People with no knowledge of art."
"Sometimes this is the case, but don't mock them all because they've different taste.
Besides I know what they want, what they'll pay for and just because it's modern it
doesn't mean it’s rubbish. Look these are going like hot cakes." Jerry held up two
canvases, "Small, neat, minimalist." Zach could see just a few dark black regulated
splodges of some indeterminate material, acrylic possibly or wax. "This is Kevin Brent's
Black Holes. He was in the paper last week."
"God it's all so nihilist,"
"That's the trend. People have so much that they are now obsessed with ‘mortality’. He
pointed with pride at his excellent collection of morbid creations.
"It's not my style Jerry,"
"Well unfortunately you're not their style right now, darling," he added with gentle
sarcasm.
"Their loss," said Zach leaning back further and glaring derisively at the gallery
collection.
"Actually it's Layla's loss. You could be treating her next week with the proceeds from
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the fair if you'd only follow my advice."
"I don't want ill-gotten gains from that ludicrous fair."
"Well you don't have to do something you hate, but a new goal, might give you a new
um, spark?"
"Why do I need a new spark?" But before Jerry could answer, probably because he didn't
want him to, Zach took another offence at something altogether different, "And would
you stop pulling that wistful face every time you mention Layla. She's my wife."
“If only she'd said yes to me."
“Yes well she said yes to me and we’re perfectly happy thank you very much.” Zach
pressed his fist into Jerry’s arm feigning a thump.
The door chimed and a short corpulent man appeared in a sharp suit of some deep blue
and distinctly shimmering material. It was the sort of suit that Zach’s father, who had
the last word in sartorial elegance, would certainly describe as ‘sudden’. The man
swaggered forward on clicking his heels. Jerry flicked Zach a powerfully significant
look. "We may be in luck, one of my more flexible clients."
The client was a pugilistic creature. He had a nose that had definitely been broken at
least twice and small puffy eyes. He sported two gold rings of a vulgar size, on his
fingers, tassels on his shoes and beneath the suit a black T shirt. He clapped Jerry on the
shoulders hard, shoving him a small distance across his gallery floor.
“Allo!" he gulped in an East London accent that sounded nothing but tough.
"Heh, heh," Jerry was all deference through the coughing the slap had provoked. "Mr
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Batey! You are just in time to meet one of my most exclusive artists. This is Zach. Oh, I
love his work, I love it! Have a look." Zach was astonished by Jerry's transformation,
back to his daarling voice and more obsequious than he'd ever seen him. How did he
manage to switch into deferential insincerity with such ease? Was this the secret talent
that divided the rich from the poor?
Mr Batey examined Zach with undisguised interest, "An artist eh?"
"It is an exception to meet the artist," Jerry chipped in.
"Yeah, they're usually a bit reluctant," Mr Batey said rolling his tongue around and
showing Zach far too much of his open mouth.
"Well a reclusive breed, you know," Jerry excused them weakly. He didn't even dare
confess to some of the artists that it was Ned Batey who had bought their work. They
were inclined to turn the sale down on principle, though even he couldn't imagine what
some of his artists were so principled about.
Zach examined Mr Batey and nodded vaguely. He had formed his own idea of art
collectors but this character had never featured in his imagination. Mr Batey seemed to
be searching Zach's face for any disrespect, but unable to interpret the naked incredulity
he accepted Jerry's importunate request to view Zach's work. He leant on the desk,
wheezing slightly and cast his eye over the canvasses Jerry brought before him, one by
one. He leant back and in the voice of a connoisseur of chips he said, "Not enough oil!"
"Oil?" Zach and Jerry mouthed.
"I am no expert but these are oil paintings ain't they?"
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"Yes, indeed," said Jerry.
"They need more oil paint. Emily likes it thick, you know, texture," he said the word
carefully as if he was not sure what it meant.
"They need more paint," Jerry repeated the wisdom, tipping his chin at Zach and opening
his eyes as wide as his sockets would stretch, to impress the idea upon him. Then he
turned back to his client. "Yes, very wise, more paint. Mr Batey you have an eye."
"Yeah, don't flatter me," he said sounding impatient and a bit dangerous. "And I'm not
being bloody facetious, it's a style Emily likes."
Mr Batey stood back and rocked on his heels, his face solemn with the knowledge of his
discernment. "So anything else with more paint? I'm paying for quantity here!" he
laughed, more at Jerry than at himself Zach thought. Jerry joined in and Zach winced
inwardly. Jerry glanced at Zach and jerked his head towards the client, urging him to
make some positive noise, Zach smirked and remained silent. He was enjoying watching
Jerry transform into salesman, and the novelty of seeing the activity close up. It never
occurred to him that he’d been on the receiving end of similar tactics many times in the
past.
Jerry narrowed his eyes and mentally kicked Zach in the shins, then turned back to Mr
Batey. "I have the paintings you selected last week all framed and wrapped up. Shall I
take them to your car?"
"Yeah, yeah, probably gone off them now. I'll stick `em in Emily's flat."
Jerry went to the back of the shop leaving a heavy silence between Zach and Ned Batey.
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Zach was determined not to throw himself on this thuggish fool, striking up some
similarly obsequious conversation. On the other hand the fool really did look menacing
so he sat in silence with an absent expression. Mr Batey however was blatantly curious
about Zach, screwing up his puggish face to look him up and down as if he were a
zoological specimen. Zach scrutinized a callous on his right palm.
Jerry returned with an evidently heavy package with which he struggled out onto the
street where a white limousine waited. Then returned hands clasped, ready for further
orders but Ned Batey just jabbed his chin towards Zach, "Does he talk?"
"Silent type," Jerry advised, with many quick nods. "Had an accident," he added in a
hushed voice. "So you'd like one of his paintings with, um more paint?" Zach folded his
arms and Jerry spotted another sneer creeping onto Zach's lips. "Zach, why don't I give
you a call later, I don't want to keep you hanging about." He began packing Zach's
paintings back into the art bag. "Thank you so much for coming in, I'm so grateful,
really. So exciting for the patron to meet the artist." He pressed Zach's shoulder urging
him towards the door.
Zach slung the strap of his portfolio over his shoulder and headed to the exit, pausing to
watch Jerry burbling away to his client and making puzzling zip gestures across his lips.
He waved small fingers at Zach as if he were a bit simple.
Back in his studio Zach was unpacking his portfolio, summoning up the energy to
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squeeze out the paints and make some progress on ‘The Girl’. The encounter with Mr
Batey was far from his mind when Jerry called.
"Great news Zach, he'll buy anything you produce."
"Who will?"
"Mr Batey of course. He was deeply moved by your plight, heh, heh, heh." Jerry couldn't
help laughing at his own cleverness.
"Moved?"
"Yes, noticing you couldn't speak he assumed you had an accident of some sort.
Goodness knows what sort of world that man lives in to jump to such a conclusion, lost
soul. I didn't say anything really."
"Like what did you not say really?"
"Just that great artists were born of tragedies, which you can't deny. It was himself who
jumped to some conclusion about a criminal background, encounter with the police and
no tongue."
"Oh yuk!"
"Oh yuk? Zach he's worth zillions this man. Give me something with more oil and I'll
give you the cash next week.”
“Look Jerry I’m just not like …”
“Me? Not like me? You’ve got principles?” then his voice changed quickly into a
deeper, serious tone, “Don’t insult me Zach. Remember I’m your friend, that’s
principles.”
*****
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Zach stood in front of his painting of `The Girl'. Executed in soft fluid lines, pale
colours, restrained and delicate, just like the subject's beauty. He picked up a fine sable
brush and carefully adjusted a minute section on the elegant nose. `Accomplished' he
repeated, Jerry had said accomplished. He stood back and wondered if what Jerry hadn't
said was more important. Why not `inspired' for instance? Or deft? Was `accomplished'
a compliment or a criticism? Zach didn’t like to think other people, let alone himself
may doubt his talent. Well accomplished was a lot better than ‘more paint please’. How
could you deal with people like that! He wondered at his friend’s compromised values.
Zach felt puckish. He flipped open a few cupboards but was uninspired by the contents.
He checked the shadow on his chin in the kitchen door mirror, spread his lips and
clunked his even teeth together, all very pleasing. Moving his attentions to a fruit bowl
he selected a crisp green apple and tossed it in the air aiming for a bounce on his modest
bicep. It glanced off the top of his arm and disappeared under the table. On all fours by
the chair legs he was well aware that he was really just wasting time, he'd hardly painted
two pointillist dots all day.
He wandered back into his studio, an airy glass extension, with huge doors at the back
opening out onto a leafy garden. He had designed it for himself. In each corner he'd
wired up a Bose Accoustimas speaker, a little Christmas present he had selected on
Layla's behalf. She was so busy at work she would never have had time to think about
what he really wanted. Zach hated bad quality sounds, bad quality anything. He put on a
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track, grinning, he didn't care what people said about Neil Diamond, he loved Cracklin
Rosie. The beat echoed round the glass walls. He picked up a paint brush and twirled it
in his fingers as he circled round the easel, feet thumping in time. Zach joined in the
chorus, "Oh my love, my Rosie child," his hand scrunched up as a microphone. He
grabbed another paint brush and using them as drumsticks, tapped out the rhythm on top
of the easel. He threw one brush in the air and caught it. He continued round the easel,
his knees shaking in and out. He tossed the brush in the air again and watched it twirl
and twirl, then it straightened, dropped and stabbed him right above his eye.
He staggered holding the heel of his palm to his eye. He slumped into a wicker chair and
nursed his eye, gritting his teeth as tears poured out of the inflicted orb. Neil Diamond
moved onto Sweet Caroline but he wasn't in the mood now, he thrust out his hand and
flicked off the sound system. The music cut abruptly, along with his former good
humour. Standing up he blinked gingerly, touched his eye with the tip of his two smaller
fingers. He had sight, thank God.
He took a few tissues and soaked them in cold water then pressed it to his eye. He
moved in front of the easel, wiping away drips of water from his cheek. "Genius artist
blinded by tool of trade," Zach announced to himself with all the nuance of a Tabloid
headline, "But with just one eye the artist struggles on, his second sight enhanced and his
paintings surely the work of the Gods."
There was a patter of quick footsteps in the corridor, 'Cooeee!"
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Zach abandoned his brushes and emerged from the studio to greet the diminutive figure
of their cleaning lady. "Hello Mrs C," he said with his most indulgent smile. Mrs Clarke
almost bobbed a curtsy. She really was a sweet little thing, all florid cheeks, scarves,
buttoned up coat and sensible shoes.
"Mr Elliot! Good morning, don't let me disturb you. You go straight back to your work."
She began to shake off her coat, Zach moved behind her and helped, then hung it on the
coat hook. "Ooh, don't you bother yourself Mr Elliot," the little woman blushed as she
did each time her handsome and clever employer addressed her. "What a day! The wind
in it!" She pulled her pinny out of her plastic carrier and briskly tied it round her waist.
"Been busy at your artistry have we Mr Elliot?"
"Yes Mrs C, certainly have. You can start in the studio if you like." God knows he
needed a break.
"Okey dokey, I'll set right to it."
Zach sat at the counter where the papers on Miss Consuela were spread out. He picked
out an atlas and his address book and began to think who would be most likely amongst
his friends to know this female bank clerk in Uruguay. He knew his various `projects'
infuriated Layla but what could he do, he was interested that's all. An `early adopter', as
her advertising team would say. Of course she saw them as distractions and time wasting
but actually there were lots of positives about his projects. He didn't begin to list them to
himself.
He opened up his address book. It was frayed at the corners and some of the type was
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even fading. Seeing this reminded him of something he had clipped out of the paper. He
jumped off his stool and rummaged through a drawer of old pens, receipts and takeaway
menus until he found the ad he had torn out some days before. He spread it out. An
electronic organiser, that's what he wanted. He just had to buy the organiser, sort out his
contacts, drop them all a line, then he could get back to work or he could get back to
Consuela, then get back to work. He slipped on his leather jacket and stepped out the
door examining the advertisement fluttering between his fingers. This would be really
useful. Layla wouldn't like it of course, she never really embraced modern technology,
slightly phobic, which was ironic in her business where people pay her fortunes to
launch new products. Layla just didn't understand. This would be time saving, efficient,
fun and...
"That will be £89.99 sir."
"Phew! Really?"
He took out his credit card and handed it over to the clerk examining the box details and
the many extra features available on this super duper model. Oblivious now to the price
he tapped in his PIN and ignored the clerk's offer of a bag, which he saw as one more
barrier to the imminent satisfaction he would gain from this fabulous gadget. He turned
the shiny platinum module over in his palm. The sheer weight of it excited him, this was
quality, precision engineering, technology, he loved technology. It was incredible what
man had achieved. One century we're living by lamp light, the next we're cramming
volumes of information into chips the size of a fingernail. Why hadn't he trained to be an
astronaut, Zach wondered vaguely?
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It was two o clock by the time he got home. Immediately he settled down to punching
the contents of his address book into the gadget. He had to cross-reference the address
book with the email addresses on his computer and in some rare cases the calendar for
birthdays. He loved the potential efficiency, he was determined to complete every
possible piece of information. He began calling his friends for their mobile numbers,
their postcodes, direct lines or any extra details that would fill in a column on the screen.
By four o clock he was up to M and Kit came through the door.
"Hey Kit, what are you doing home so early?" Zach beamed at him from his burrow of
paper.
"Actually I'm late,"
"Late? For what?" he added returning to his cataloguing labours.
"Late home. You forgot to collect me, but then Ollie's mum brought me back but she had
to go to the shops first..."
Zach was clutching his head, "Grief Kit, I'm so sorry!" he looked up grinning sheepishly.
"Never mind dad," his son reassured him, with a baffled glance at the mess of address
books, torn envelopes and diaries. Zach took the look to mean he understood he was
busy on something vital. Kit sauntered over to the fridge. Holding the door he pulled out
a carton of juice and gulped some down, then replaced it and pulled out a cold sausage.
He stuck that in his mouth and grabbed two cold roast potatoes, shut the door with his
elbow and took a seat opposite his father.
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"Don't drink from the carton Kit, your mother wouldn’t like it," Zach said, then he
looked up and touched the side of his mouth. Kit wiped his mouth with the back of his
hand and found it sticky with orange. He scrunched up his face and pretended to look
contrite but Zach's attention was back with his cataloguing.
"Hey Kit, take a look," Zach held out the electronic organiser.
Kit took the device and with one dexterous thumb scrolled through the commands and
information. "Neat Dad."
"Do that again," said Zach, amazed.
"What?"
"What you just did, show me." Kit surfed through the commands and information.
"You're so quick! What do you do? Press ups on your thumb? It's taken me all afternoon
to input my friends' contacts up to M, given most of my acquaintances are from foreign
countries I have the feeling it's going to be busy in the second half of the alphabet. My
fingers ache."
Kit picked up an address book, "Where you up to?"
"M, Mickey,"
"Mickey? No surname?"
"Not for him. Hey I've an idea, why don't I call them out and you input the details?"
Kit hesitated, "Well, I've got homework."
"Ten pence each name?"
Kit dumped his bag and sat down with the gadget.
"Mickey,"
"Yup, we've got Mickey, any number?"
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"Hmm, phone number. I'll just email him and get his contacts. Zach disappeared to the
computer leaving Kit amidst the clutter and scraps of paper with numbers scrawled next
to names, often just a nickname and a country. Zach returned.
"Right let's move on, he'll get back to me. Milo Chu."
"You want that under Chu or Milo?"
They worked like this for the next two hours. Zach calling out names, Kit inputting data,
punctuated with small discussions on where the names should be placed and longer
discussions on how Zach had got to know the person. At six thirty they were up to W.
“Is there any tea Dad?” Kit had been hungry for some time.
"Tea? Oh of course there's tea," said Zach, fingers stuck in his hair like a pitch fork
burrowing for tea ideas.
"Want one of my specials Kit?"
"The Special?"
"Sure, The Special. Thanks for the help with the electronics." Zach was oblivious to Kit's
expression or he might have offered something else.
Zach pulled out some bread, some strong cheese and a slab of chocolate. He layered it
up and stuck it under the grill. "Have some more orange juice Kit, vitamins."
Kit went back to the fridge and slugged from the carton. Chewing on the toasted cheese
and chocolate he wondered where his father got the recipes. None of his friends ever ate
this sort of food, in fact he tended to keep it quiet after he first described one of his
father's specialities and everyone in his class went 'yurk!'
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"The secret is to use the best chocolate, this stuff is perfect," Zach was reading the
ingredients intently. Do you know this has organic raw cane sugar in it? None of that
saccharin rubbish. This is positively healthy."
"That's relative though, isn't it Dad."
"Relative,"
"Yes, like Einstein relative, it's not as bad as saccharin but not as good as vegetables."
"Yeah but it tastes better than spinach, doesn't it!" They chuckled together without
mentioning Layla.
"So I think I should get on with my homework," suggested Kit.
"Homework? You've just done a full day, relax."
Kit circled his eyes to heaven, and began collecting his bags and books. Dubiously Zach
watched his young son taking himself off to do work, poor kid, "Anyway since when
have they been burdening you with homework?"
"'bout four years"
Zach stopped what he was doing and looked at his soft small human. "Well perhaps you
should have a little homework. What have you got?"
"Shadows”.
"Hey fantastic. I love shadows," he made a dog shape with his hands and waved it about
producing a shadow animal on the wall.
"Something like that," said Kit laughing at his father. "I've got to stick a card on
something and track the shadow, it’s for science."
"I'll help you, we've got lots of stuff in the studio. Meanwhile come on, you help me."
Kit bit his lip. "Promise," said Zach making a Scout's honour sign, popping his eyes and
21
sticking his tongue out sideways. Laughing his son put his backpack down and returned
to the table.
22
CHAPTER TWO
Layla sat the other side of an especially wide desk. This was the biggest office in the
agency, a five windower and no green carpet. Johnny O the creative director, determined
to assert his creativity, had insisted on a few personal touches. Instead of the dingy green
felt his office had slate tiles.
"Would you like a glass of Riesling?" Johnny indicated a bottle chilling in a bucket at
one end of his desk. A lithe girl wearing a long cashmere cardigan and swishing a sleek
curtain of red hair hovered protectively round her boss. She produced another glass and
served the chilled wine to Layla. "Have you sorted out our little production issue Layla?"
"Not exactly. Mr Carynopolis is quite a stubborn man."
"Not half as stubborn as me, Layla."
"Come on Johnny, I'm at my wits end. This man is not reasonable.”
The day had been one of her most taxing. She had presented new photography to her
client who had insisted the Taj Mahal dominated his models and clothes. Incredibly he'd
asked her to shrink this Wonder of the World and of course her creative director had
only repeated his usual mantra, ‘no compromise’. The photography would never be
retouched, the client would scream and not pay his bills, peoples’ jobs were on the line,
her bonus wouldn’t be paid, a bonus by the way, already spent by her idiot husband on
his projects. Layla reflected how much easier life would be if everyone would
compromise a little.
She launched into her final offensive, "How about you come and meet our client. You
might give him more faith in the creative process. Two creative geniuses together,
23
sharing ideas. You could change his mind. He's rather sick of me and my bills. A new
face,"
Johnny spluttered into laughter. "Meet a client, you're joking aren't you? I create. You're
paid to deal with the clients."
"Just for a quick chat?"
"No."
"Times up Layla. Sayonara, I've creation to do. I'm sure you'll manage.” Johnny O
whipped his feet off the desk and spun his chair round to collect a layout pad from
behind him, "Don't fail or else!" he gave a witch like cackle.
Layla gritted her teeth. What giddy heights she had reached, bullied by idiotic clients
and dismissed by egotistical creatives. Layla sipped the chilled white wine, then
finished the glass, feeling a guilty relief at its intoxicating progress through her body.
Ten minutes later she definitely had a more lighthearted approach to the client meeting.
"Mr Carynopolis, how wonderful to see you. You always radiate a star like quality,
Versace has nothing on you," Layla chimed, moving briskly round the room. Mr
Carynopolis gave a low rumble of appreciation and agreement. With one hand she
whipped out the layouts for his campaign, with the other she flicked on the light box. All
the time Layla was struggling to think what to say, how to explain the intransigence of
her conceited creative, but somehow she’d gone through a worry threshold. This would
all be dreadful or it would work out. She couldn’t care less.
24
"This is where we were, all copy approved just the photography to go through. We need
to go to press tomorrow latest or we'll end up forfeiting media," Layla said in a pleasant
voice that seemed to belong to someone else.
"And that will be a loss for the agency won't it?"
Layla stalled for a second, but his gall was too much, too much to dispute. She placed a
transparency onto the light box.
"So!" she said slightly breathless, waiting for the right words to fall out of her mouth as
she stared at the exact same image she had shown her client the previous day.
"The retouched photography?" Mr Carynopolis said in a thin voice.
"Yes! Here is the retouched photography. We managed to rush it through last night, it
wasn't easy and it wasn't cheap." Her hands glided about the image, pointing hurriedly to
one detail then another inviting her client to examine the picture. "As you can see the
wall colours have been fractionally adjusted, we have reduced the Taj Mahal's size, the
models are now really dominant, the clothes, your clothes look simply stunning. But that
is down to you, we could have shot them from a mile away and they'd still look
beautiful. This purple scarf here, it just zings out doesn't it. I can't wait for it to come out
on the market. Mr Carynopolis I never did ask, what first inspired you to follow a
creative path?"
Layla walked back into her office with a smile on her face that had been fixed there for
the entire one hour meeting so fixed that now she found it difficult to remove. She was
feeling far better disposed to Mr Carynopolis than to her creative director. She called
Johnny O, "Mr Carynopolis is a happy man. We can go to press,"
25
"We have," said Johnny and he put the phone down.
*****
Layla stamped down the dark city streets, the tranquilising effects of the wine had worn
off and she was feeling strung out and dry, like old spaghetti. She wished she could
change days with Zach, painting her imagination, helping her son with his homework
and she'd create little gourmet specialties for dinner. She wondered what he'd have made
for dinner, she was famished.
"Nice day?" asked Zach paying more attention to the gadget than her answer.
Layla leant over Kit and wiped his face with a finger and tugged at his shirt with
chocolate smeared on the sleeve. "In the wash please.” And to Zach she added more
viciously than she intended, “My day was terrific, all twelve hours of it."
She picked up the empty plate with evidence of the cheese and chocolate toasty. Zach
didn't need to look up to know his wife's censorious expression.
"It had whole grain bread and plenty of protein, totally organic, a little energy and a
vitamin C chaser."
"Are you full?" She looked at Kit with concern.
"Mostly," he said.
"I'll make something. Have you done your homework?" She saw the clumsy exchange of
glances between Kit and Zach.
"Just about to," Kit said still staring at Zach who was nodding encouragingly at this line.
"Yes, he was literally on his way as you walked in."
26
Layla began cracking eggs into a bowl, her hair flying over her face as she angrily
whipped them up for an omelette.
"Omelette?" she blurted to Zach without much invitation.
"Is that dinner?"
"Why? Did you prepare a little surprise for us this evening?"
"Oops, forgot," Zach continued fiddling with his organiser. Layla pulled out a pan, then
slammed it onto the cooker. The surprisingly resonant crash even shook Layla. She felt
bad for creating a row and after all she was too tired to pursue a fight. She squeezed out
a show of interest in her husband’s day.
"How did you get on with the painting?"
"Big progress. And I saw Jerry today, he likes my new stuff." Zach replied, equally
eager to pick up on a better mood. “And some client of his has a commission for me.”
"Don't tell me you've finally submitted to market forces?"
"Would I?" he said knowing the commission was redundant unless he had submitted.
"I wish!" She scratched her nose with the back of her hand.
"It's all right for you. You just turn up at work and collect your money, even if you don't
turn up they pay you for being sick."
"I just turn up?" Layla twisted back to the cooker and grabbed the omelette pan in one
hand, shaking it with renewed energy.
"In a nice suit," Zach backtracked trying to turn his last remark into a joke. "Look I'm
making excellent progress on Meez Consuela," he continued breezily imagining the
subject that excited him might excite others. "I am getting nearer and nearer, the net
27
closes in. I bought this today." He pushed the organiser across the table and sat back
looking as proud as if he'd invented it himself. As Layla made no move to approach the
item he gathered it up again and began scrolling through the menu. At each option he
turned the screen towards her. "You can track by name, number or even date of birth."
"Marvellous Zach," Layla slipped an omelette onto a plate decorated with sliced
tomatoes and avocado and handed it to Kit. "You'd better eat up and get straight to bed."
"Come on, have a look. It was on sale," Zach lied spontaneously.
"Really," said Layla with an emphatic lack of interest. She picked up the second pan,
shook the omelette loose and tipped it towards Zach's plate at the last moment dropping
it into his lap. He adopted a patient smile.
"I knew you wouldn't like this electronic organiser."
"Oh sorry," she said in a bland voice then turned to her son, "Kit how's the shadow
project?"
"How did you know about the shadows?" Zach looked up in the middle of turfing the
omelette back onto the plate, it disintegrated between his fingers and he found himself
fumbling in an undignified manner with scraps of cooked egg.
"It's in the newsletter under S for science. Kit?"
"Shadows yes, in fact that was what I was going to work on after dinner." Kit
concentrated on his own omelette.
"Kit you'll be too tired. Why don't you just get started when you come in, get it all
finished then you can relax? What on earth have you been, up to?"
"He's been educating his father in the dexterity of the youth of today demonstrating the
super extended powers of their digital digits." He picked at shreds of egg in his lap.
28
"Have you seen this guy on a keyboard? Have a look, Kit, show Mum what you can do.
Find me Xanthie at Fire Fox."
Kit picked up the gadget and whizzed across the keys, in two seconds he had the details.
"Zach!" Layla was exasperated, "The boy has school work, projects, tests, sorry but it's a
fact of school life. When Kit comes in ask him about his homework and then get him
upstairs to do it and whilst he's up there studying diligently why don't you prepare
something sensible for our dinner?"
"Sensible? Look I'm not the bloody nanny!"
"No, but you're you are…" Zach's expression warned Layla that she was on volatile
ground. "It's just that you're at home, and I'm..." Layla trailed off, she could see Zach
would not listen to any remote allusion to him being a house husband.
"I work from home. There isn't an office that artists all congregate in at 9am." He still
wore a fixed half smile, he wasn't sure himself if he might cry, fume or even burst out
laughing.
"I’ll clean my teeth,” Kit said to his mother getting up from the table.
"Good boy," but she caught Zach’s expression, as if he was a kid left behind to be told
off. Kit dashed up the stairs.
"Why do I have to be the bossy one?" she asked miserably. Zach saw he had gained the
point and let his expression relax. "Why can't you keep on at him about his schoolwork
and I distract him?"
"And what are you going to distract him with?"
Layla thought for a bit, but her mind was clogged up with her stressful showdown with
29
Johnny O and Carynopolis. She felt incapable of thinking of anything fun and
distracting.
"You could show him your ads, teach him how rife commercialism is in the real world,"
he teased.
Layla slammed her hand down on the counter, her wedding ring made a loud crack and
her knuckles stung.
"Commercialism made and paid for your latest purchase." Zach looked hurt. "Come on
Zach, so what am I? A bloody capitalist?" Then a pillow of emotional exhaustion
smothered her last scrap of energy. She slumped heavily into the chair opposite her
husband and sat in hardened silence. He poked her foot with his toe and gave her a
handsome smile. Then he slipped out of his chair, stood behind her and began massaging
her shoulders.
“I met a gangster today, a real live one.”
Layla made a non committal shrug beneath his hard working fingers.
“Yes, came in carrying a violin case, with a moll on his arm.”
“Don’t believe you,” Layla nearly smiled.
“Well perhaps you’re right not to. He didn’t have a violin case with him, probably left it
in his car. But he has a moll, didn’t see her, but I know her name’s Emily.”
“How do you know it’s his moll?”
“She apparently has her own flat, stuffed with bits of art, and he had a wedding ring.”
“You sleuth!”
“Obviously he hasn’t a wife as sexy as you.” Layla giggled and to his relief Zach knew
the situation was retrieved.
30
****
It was two o clock in the morning Layla was still awake. What kind of world was this? A
bizarre world in which she was paid a big salary yet felt her life was a failure. Why
couldn’t Zach earn some money though? Something to pay for his electronic organiser,
maybe even for the bloody ice cream maker, the mushroom kit and the iPod that he'd
bought the month before. Layla lifted the covers and quietly slipped out of the bed. She
slung her dressing gown round her shoulders and tripped down the stairs bare foot. From
carpet, to the hallway floorboards, over the cold stone tiles of the kitchen and into the
studio, where the rough hessian rug scratched her feet. The moonlight spilled through the
glass roof tinting the irregular shapes of the canvas, tables and easels with a yellowish
glow.
Layla touched some of the brushes. She picked up a blank sheet of cartridge paper and
held it up to the sky. A shadow of the crabapple tree cut through by a cross frame of the
glass roof appeared on the white sheet. She moved the canvas around the room, holding
it up to the ceiling and watching the shadows form and disappear until she found the
shapes she liked best. The jutting roof of the neighbour's extension that had always left a
shadow in their garden, slashed by a cross frame of their own glass roof. She fixed the
shadow in her mind then took up a pencil and began to sketch out the shapes.
Intermittently she'd hold the canvas up to the roof and watch the shadow fall then resume
her work. When the main outline was complete she began filling in the shapes with a
31
soft charcoal. Eventually the moonlight faded and dawn came. There were no more
shadows, except for the one on her canvas and Layla thought it was the most beautiful
shadow she had seen all night.
She sat in Zach's large wicker chair, wrapping a hairy, paint strewn blanket round her
shoulders and stared at her creation on the easel. With a feeling of contentment that she
hadn't experienced in years she shut her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
Kit woke her up two hours later by blowing on her face, the way she would wake him
up. Layla opened her eyes and smiled immediately remembering with satisfaction her
drawing. It was a long time since she’d surfaced from sleep with a feeling of
contentment with what she had achieved and optimism for what she could do. She
stretched and in a croaky voice said good morning. She held out her arms and Kit
perched on the arm of the chair letting his mother scratch his back.
"What are you doing in here?" Kit looked about the studio. "I'm hungry."
"You can reach the cupboard Kit, pull a box of cereal down and guess where the milk
is."
"Yup, okay. Why aren't you in your bed?"
Layla eased herself out of the chair and stretched her shoulders, her vertebrae clicked in
new places.
"I was drawing."
She walked over to the easel; one side was Zach's ‘Girl’ the other side was her own
restrained grey shadows. Kit followed her round the easel.
32
"Spooky," Kit pronounced.
"Oh it's not meant to be," Layla looked at it again. The end result did have a certain eerie
quality, even more engaging she thought.
"What's this? A convention in my studio?"
"Mum's drawn a picture," Kit said excitedly.
Zach looked at Kit questioningly, as if Mum and picture didn't equate, then his face
brightened, rather he brightened his face.
"Layla, you haven't touched a canvas since….
"Years,"
"Years, since you got that hotel job. Do you remember that funny job you had in Tibet?"
Of course Layla remembered that funny job she had in Tibet, that's when her whole life
changed, that's why she was doing what she was doing now, being harangued by crazy
clients and deluded creatives, why they had the money and the house and why she never
had time to paint.
"So show us your baby," Zach said trying to hide a rising unease that he didn't quite
understand. Layla had been at least as good an artist as he had when they first met. He
had a suspicion that his recent lack of success had encouraged Layla in a perverse way.
Kit picked up the picture and passed it to Layla. Layla flipped it round. "Da Da!"
She watched her husband's face for false praise. His expression remained fixed for a
minute. Too fixed, then he spoke. "That is good," he adopted a shrewd expression, "I can
see just what you were looking at. You were standing here," was he in the right spot?
33
She nodded. "I like it Layla."
"Thank you,"
"I don't know why you ever stopped," Zach said oblivious to the riot of emotions the
words provoked in his wife.
34
CHAPTER THREE
Zach glanced from his painting to Layla’s. Her’s had a certain abstraction to it that made
him look closer to see what it was really depicting. Finding himself drawn in he abruptly
stepped back, irritated. He tossed his brushes down and sloped off into the sitting room,
flopped onto the sofa and flicked the TV remote. A group of middle aged women were
sitting around on soft chairs having their views prized out of them by a presenter far
slimmer and more glamorous than any of them.
"He never seems to realise that I work as hard as him," said a woman with large floppy
bosoms in a purple skinny rib jumper,
"You should not be wearing that, love," Zach told the television, crossing his legs and
tapping the remote on his knee.
"No, just because we don't put money in the bank apparently we can't be working."
"So you are all working just as hard even though you don't get paid?" clarified the high
earning presenter. The jowels all jingled in unison.
"I just hate it when I am frantic, got to pick up the kids, or do the bloody washing up and
then I call him to ask a question and he's saying, mm, mm, just mumbling answers and I
can hear the tap tap on his computer. It drives me mad!"
"Yeah or they ring you, you're screamingly busy and they can't hardly remember what
they were calling you about, something insignificant and so dull they can hardly focus
their own brains on it even when they called you! And you just want to say, get on with
it, I'm like totally flat out even if you aren't!" This from a jovial blonde woman with
bright pink lipstick, provoked a good deal of understanding laughter from the other
35
women.
"So you don't appreciate them multi-tasking?" The presenter challenged.
"Multi-what?"
"Him talking to you whilst cracking out a contract or something," goaded the woman,
who Zach guessed would definitely side with the men in this case.
The women all looked at each other and shook their heads in unison. "Nah," said one,
"It's rude."
"Actually women are the best multi-taskers in the world," said the jovial blonde.
"They should try having sex and making a shopping list, whilst figuring out what to
cook for dinner the next day!" The audience joined in with raucous applause. "Oh the
worst, the worst is when they come back and say I've had a hell of a day, breakfast
meeting at the Ritz, lunch at the Conran thingy and then I had to have a drink with that
bloody client!"
"Yes, poor him!" Another burst out. "I had a Tesco's sandwich and a drink at the sink,
before meeting three eight year olds at school."
"God get real!" they all chimed.
"God get a bloody life!" Zach yelled at the screen in a northern accent and flicked off the
TV.
He went back to the kitchen and put the cups in the dishwasher, then sat on a stool
thinking about his `accomplished' work as Jerry had described it. He looked at the clock,
half convincing himself that he was keen to get on with his painting, and quickly coming
to the conclusion that it was time for lunch. He felt like company, some life affirming
36
company. He called Mickey and then Hal but neither were free. On a peculiar whim he
called Layla, they had never had lunch. She couldn't make it either, she had to take a
client out, had to, she said as if it were a great trial. "Where are you going?"
"Sardo's," she said, and was that tapping in the background?
"That new restaurant on the canal?"
"Mmm," she said definitely typing.
"Looks swish, have a good time."
"Unlikely, it’s with the accountant," she said and Zach wished he'd recorded that
programme for her.
He flicked on the radio. A confident and reassuring American accent spoke at him. "At
the end of the day most men want more sex." Zach sat up alert. "The problem with your
common or garden house husband is that he can feel so emasculated, his whole situation
can undermine his machismo. House husband is not sexy." Zach put his arms behind his
head and leant back. "There are a lot of us," said the rich, smooth voice. "We know what
we want. We have a project, perhaps a screenplay in development or a website, whatever
it is, we want to spend the days doing that and the evenings in sensual relaxation with
our chosen spouse. The key to that goal is to be the best. The best house husband."
"And that's what your book is about is it Ray?"
"Indeed it is Amelia. And great sex," Ray rumbled. "If you prepare superb food, are a
whizz in the kitchen, in the garden, in the home and in bed, who's to complain? And
success at night will surely mean you’re successful at whatever you’re doing during the
day.”
37
“Sounds like a good recipe.”
“You don't want to be a carping husband do you?" Zach shook his head. "You're a
man." Zach nodded. "You want a happy sexy woman." More vigorous nodding. "Make
her happy and sexy.
The phone rang. Zach picked it up,
"Don't forget to make Kit do his homework."
"Oh fuck off!" he mimed.
"Zach?"
"Yup, heard you. Got to go, sorry busy, bye." He rushed to put the phone down before
his busy important wife could first.
He looked back at the studio, the word ‘project’ went through his mind and he felt
particularly emasculated. He was a painter, an artist, he reassured himself. Completely
fed up he grabbed his jacket and went out for a walk.
Zach found himself in the high street peering into the window of an electric shop stuffed
full of kitchen appliances. In the centre of the display was a small light that looked like
an opaque stone, glowing comfortably, slowly changing colours. He was mesmerised. It
was relaxing, soothing. A loud horn sounded behind him and he nearly jumped out of his
skin. A cabbie was abusing a TNT delivery man. He stepped into the shop, a bell
clanged, then the door closed behind him and the sound from the street was cut out. A
sign on the wall offered a memorial to a Mr Webber who had worked in King Electrics
38
for 18 years and would be much missed by his colleagues and many loyal customers. A
large lady appeared through a back door. She was dressed head to toe in black with
silvery hair mounted on a plump powdered face. She saw Zach reading the notice.
"Did you know Mr Webber?" Zach shook his head, but made a face of regret. "He was
such a lovely man, everyone remembered him, a real character."
"Wonderful, people like that," agreed Zach, feeling a strange warm comfort in the show
of empathy.
"You'd have remembered him if you'd met him," Zach tried to recollect if he had ever
met him. Surely he'd been in this shop many times to buy light bulbs or something.
"Well we remember him." The woman stood with her hands crossed in front of her, her
head slightly bowed reverently.
"Very kind of you, it is nice to be remembered."
Zach wondered how it went from this solemn moment to a glowing light that changed
colour. The lady didn't say anything more, apparently lost in her recollections of old Mr
Webber. He wondered about slowly making his way to the door for a discreet exit. Then
the door opened and the bell clanged, another customer came in bringing all the noise
from the street. The door eased shut and it was quiet again.
"Have you got a cheap kettle?" The lad in paint spattered jeans asked abruptly. In spite
of the chill air he was wearing a cap sleeved T-shirt that showed off some solid muscles.
This was not an emasculated individual thought Zach. He never worries about his
39
machismo.
"If you'll just wait a moment," said the lady primly, "I'm in the middle of serving. Sir?"
she addressed Zach.
Sir, Zach liked that. The lad shuffled, quashed by this solid matron. She tilted her
powdered cheeks with enquiry firmly towards Zach. He cleared his throat.
"The light in the window, it glows, changes colour,"
"Ah, our relaxation stone."
"Indeed, it seems very relaxing."
She went to the back of the shop and stood on a small stool to reach up to a high shelf
revealing the tops of her pop socks that formed a thin tourniquet about her plump calves.
The lad turned to look at Zach who sensed his smirk and made every effort not to return
the glance, in deference to Mr Webber and the mourning situation.
"This is what you're after. We are the only people who sell this product in the area. Mr
Webber was very good at sourcing," she pursed her lips, holding back some simmering
emotion, then rallying she added, "You might want to nip over the road to `El Sueno' and
buy some aromatherapy essence to go with it. Sets the scene," she said with a polite
smile that surely precluded the thoughts that had sprung into Zach's head, or was there
more to her relationship with Mr Webber than just business? Perhaps they had their own
glowing stone and El Sueno products. The cap sleeved T shirt lad looked at the stone
with a primitive curiosity.
Zach paid and as suggested crossed the road to visit `El Sueno'. The moment he entered
40
the shop the heady scents of Jasmine enveloped him and tinkly music lulled him into a
state of tranquillity. His mind wandered, happily, lightly. An assistant presented herself
and Zach turned towards her with a beatific grin.
"I'll have some of that and some of that," Zach said pointing to the air then his ears.
"Sensuous isn't it," said the assistant. Zach was beginning to have the impression that
everywhere he turned people had sex on their minds. His Rolex beeped. Time to go he
had to collect Kit. Coming back to the present Zach quickly bought the ‘sensuous’ El
Sueno products and hurried to Kit’s school.
Zach approached the playground with some reluctance, he was keen to get home and set
up his new purchases. As he reached the steps a plump lazy bodied father turned up.
Zach had noticed him every day, making a defiant show of househusband being a manly
role for a man. He gave Zach a vaguely friendly nod, Zach in turn carefully slid his focus
beyond him, pulled out his diary and pretended to scribble in it. He wrinkled his brow
with assumed cerebral effort; the other veered away as if he’d never nodded. But Zach
was caught off guard by the woman next to him.
"Busy day?" She peered at his invisible scribbles. He snapped his diary shut. He
recognised her, always smart and exuding an intimidating competence.
"Hey dad," woomph, Kit slammed into him and handed over his back pack. "Can Ollie
come over? Have tea? Sleepover?"
Zach was disarmed for a moment, seeing his quiet afternoon dissolve into a few noisy
hours of table football and feeding. Then he realized the woman next to him was Ollie's
41
mother.
"Oh, um I think I can rustle something up, um, Nutella sandwiches or um something," he
shrugged, bestowing a hapless but winning smile on Ollie's mother. Sure enough
Supermum rescued the boys, promising to nourish them both with a proper tea, get the
homework done, maybe a film and return Kit safely to school the next morning; he could
clean his teeth with his finger. Clapping his hands Zach strode away from the school, a
man with a purpose.
Back at home Zach had planned to spend a while setting up the scent and sounds then he
would get on with some work. In the end he had spent all afternoon virtually renovating
their bedroom. The curtains were drawn and a musky scent permeated the air. A
sequined spread they had bought in Rajasthan glimmered on the bed caught by the
swaying candlelight. A CD of shakra shakra, global meditation music scattered over the
air-waves. He had had to buy a new sound system to go with the CD, which had
necessitated a return visit to the electrical shop and further chat about Mr Webber's eye
for only the finest quality equipment. It had taken a while to wire up the speakers. In one
corner the stone glowed, first a soft red, then fading to green, then fading to blue and
then red. Zach was pleased with the overall effect and full of anticipation for Layla's
return. There was just one more thing to do.
He trotted down the stairs to the studio. He cast about for some paper, pulled out three
sheets and hurriedly began covering each in broad charcoal strokes. He filled in some
detail on one sheet, then on two others he dashed some paint, varying shades of pink,
42
grey and fleshy hues. He dropped the papers about the table, giving a satisfactory
appearance of busy production.
He heard Layla's shoes clipping into the kitchen, "Hi!" she called, sounding reasonably
happy, a good start.
"Hey, I'm in the studio, just finishing something off," he said assuming a concentrated
pose over one sketch with his charcoal. He maintained the pose for a moment but Layla
didn't come in. "Nearly finished..." he called out and listened for some reaction.
He could hear Layla opening post. He wiped his hands, pushed back his hair and walked
through the kitchen. Layla had her back to him and was absorbed in some letter. He
crept up behind her and flung his arms round her waist. Layla staggered back, "Jesus
Zach, you gave me a fright." He grinned, swiped a rose from the vase and pushed it
between his teeth. She responded with a puzzled look, while paying more attention to
undoing the belt of her coat.
"Busy day?" she asked glancing towards the kitchen and the absent smell of food.
"I got a fair amount done but, well not busy like yours I'm sure," he said as
sympathetically as possible. Layla silently agreed. "You know I have been thinking how
hard you work, how busy you actually are. You deserve something special," he clamped
his arm round her waist again and steered her up the stairs. "First stop," he pushed open
the bathroom door, a waft of warm heady oils drifted out. Layla saw candlelight
flickering and a bath full of petals. "Relax," said Zach staying at the door and ushering
her in. "Disrobe, sink into your bath and, well bathe."
43
"But… "
"No buts, Kit’s at Ollie’s…all night. "Just think of yourself," he coaxed.
Layla watched the door shut behind him then shrugged. How peculiar, she thought. But
the bath was tempting. She took off her clothes and obeyed her husband. Slipping into
the bath and relaxing she promptly lapsed into a deep sleep. After a while Zach returned
to collect her, "Now ve move to ze treatment room," he said holding up a large fluffy
bath towel. Layla swallowed and moistened her tongue, she had been sound asleep.
Dragging herself into the present she allowed herself to be wrapped in a towel and
followed Zach to their bedroom. Behind the door Layla could hear curious chanting
sounds. She tensed, his hippie friends? Surely not in their bedroom? But it would be so
like Zach to have half a dozen Tibetan monks over for a chant. Zach pushed open the
door, thankfully the room was empty. The impression was in fact rather magical; lights,
scents, music. "Slip onto the bed Layla, I'm going to give you a massage and dissolve the
stress of your day."
A massage Layla liked the sound of, but she couldn't help feeling nervous, looking round
the room digesting the transformation. Her eyes trained on the stone light, as it changed
from red to green. "Interesting," she said with a slow emphasis on each syllable. Zach
took some oil in his hands and began massaging her shoulders. "Wonderful," Layla
slumped into the softness of the bed and thought she might be able to enjoy the treatment
after all. She twisted her head round and kissed him, which he gratefully received.
American Ray was right, thought Zach.
44
"Where's the music coming from?" Layla murmured into the pillow.
"The sound system," Zach said, then tried to snatch the words back into his mouth, but it
was too late. This was a dangerous moment.
"The sound system? The CD player downstairs?" Layla's voice was sleepy curiosity.
"Eh, no, the one upstairs,"
"Which one upstairs?" Alert curiosity.
"Our new one for sensuous evenings," Zach pushed harder on Layla's shoulders, which
he could feel tensing up again.
Layla bit the pillow so she didn't turn round and use it to smother her profligate husband.
Would he ever stop spending money! Zach wondered if Ray had a chapter on situation
retrieval.
******
Layla stared at Zach's painting of the `The Girl' on the easel and found herself unable to
comment, that is if she were going to comment with honesty. Kit sauntered in and Zach
unnerved by Layla's silence pounced on his son, "What do you think?"
The boy stood back one finger under his chin. "Hmmm, not very modern is it?"
"Not very modern!" Zach huffed.
Layla laughed at the boy's perceptiveness and also his guileless honesty. He'd made little
progress and the work was in her view pedestrian. Zach thought about giving his son a
sharp clip round the head.
"I mean we went round that gallery with the school, you know, and there weren't any
45
portraits."
"Really," said Zach sourly.
"No they were all 3D things. Shapes, pieces, conceptual work,"
"Conceptual work?" both Layla and Zach repeated.
"Yes that's what Mr Wallace called them,"
Kit saw his mother was smiling but his father was looking distinctly irritated.
"It's good," Kit sensed something simple was required. "And I like yours too mum. Are
you going to sell it?"
Zach raised his eyes to Heaven at the remoteness of such a possibility, causing Layla a
bout of infuriation.
"Well even if I can't sell it I'll still be just as successful an artist as you, won't I!" Layla
strutted out of the studio.
Zach put down the brushes he was rinsing, and began methodically wiping his hands. He
tried to decide if he was more angry at Layla or with himself for upsetting her.
Zach tossed the cloth on the counter and called through to the kitchen in as neutral a
voice as he could muster, "What are you calling this picture?" In point of fact he always
wanted a title. It annoyed him when he looked at an unrecognisable piece, moved in to
identify the inspiration behind it only to find Untitled, or worse Untitled II. Bloody
pretentious. Layla didn't answer him. Zach leant through the doorway, "I said what are
you going to call your work? It deserves a title."
Layla folded a tea towel and busily pressed it into the cutlery drawer as if she were
46
occupied with many important tasks.
"Shadows," she sniffed and began vigorously rinsing a cup at the sink.
"Shadows," Zach looked back at the glass roof of the studio. "Good," he said. "’S good,"
he turned to Kit, who had followed him in. "What about you chappy? Any artistic
yearnings in our offspring? You have two such talented parents surely there must be
something you want to create?"
"Yes, there's my science project. I still have to make something for my homework.
That's sort of creative." He lifted a piece of white card. "Can I have this?"
"Sure help yourself." Zach resumed clearing up the brushes.
Kit cut a piece of card into a square and painted it a dense black all over. He doodled
whilst he waited for the paint to dry then sketched a few Pokémon characters. After a
while he dabbed at his card, it was dry. He folded it in half diagonally, then folded back
the long edges to make a footing which he pasted with careful accuracy diagonally
across the centre of another flat sheet of card. This created an upright triangle, about
twelve centimetres high, sitting on the white base. With a black marker he wrote
‘Shadows' in the corner. He took his homework into the kitchen and put it on the
counter.
"Not bad!" said Layla leaning over his shoulder. "Almost a work of art."
"I can see that in an exhibition," said Zach studying the label on a good bottle of St
Emillion.
"Oh look, I see what you're up to!" she pointed to the board. As she leant over she
47
blocked the light and the shadow of the upright board vanished.
"That's the whole point. That's what Mr Bellows is telling us about,"
"That hairy science teacher?"
"Yes, he's always on about man's effect on nature. Movement, waves, um shadows."
Zach took a second look at the cardboard structure.
"Look there's a shadow, now lean forward," said Kit, "see shadow's gone, you've
blocked the light. Interfered with nature."
"Not again," said Zach emphasising a feeling of general rejection and yanked the cork
out of the bottle.
"Well I think it's clever," Layla picked it up and scribbled on the back, ‘An interactive
structure demonstrating man's effect on nature’.
"Now if you wouldn't mind clearing your things away I'll sort out dinner."
Kit took his project back to the studio and propped it next to his father's picture on the
easel.
After dinner Layla was sifting through the Sunday papers. She was sitting on the floor
next to the sofa and browsing through the review section. She hardly ever managed to
get through the whole paper on a Sunday and hoarded the various sections throughout
the week intending to read them, then Thursday night would come round and it was time
to put the recycling bins out. At which point all the carefully saved papers would be
dumped to clear space for the arrival of the next weekend's pile of pulp.
She cast a quick eye over the pages in a final check in case she had missed anything
48
interesting and something did catch her eye. She brought the paper closer so she could
read it more easily. It was an article for the summer show at The Bank. The Bank was
one of the most prominent contemporary art galleries in London. It was inviting all
would-be contemporary artists who wished to submit work for possible inclusion to do
so before the deadline of 1 o clock on the 14th. Layla checked her watch and saw that
the 14th was the next day. The entry was £100. All paintings had to be submitted in a
frame and any sculptures to be suitably mounted for display.
Steep entry price, she thought, this would rule out most struggling artists, she felt
optimistic. Perhaps there wouldn't be a thousand entries for them to sift through, perhaps
if she were to enter her Shadows it would be one of only a dozen entries and they would
have to include it. Layla lifted the page and tore out the entry form, then packed up the
rest of the newspapers and pressed them into a recycling bag.
She read through the entry details, it was very straightforward. No qualifications
necessary, no evidence of previous work, or the requirement of an agent. There was
going to be an exhibition at the end of the selection process and an open auction for the
public. `An opportunity to recoup your entry costs and establish yourself in the market.'
They then listed a number of famous contemporary artists who had gained their first
success at the exhibition and further listed how many of them went on to be represented
successfully by The Bank.
"Hell, I never spend money on myself," she thought, this would be her treat. She would
49
even enjoy looking forward to the rejection letter on the gallery's notepaper. That would
almost be enough to make her feel like an artist again. `Yeah, I paint. Entry in The Bank
exhibit,' she practised the laconic tone, whilst she filled in the form and wrote out the
£100 cheque. She was going to ask Zach if he wouldn't mind getting the picture framed
but then she guessed he would some how resent assisting her artistic efforts. He would
be patronising. Besides she knew his view on these shows, scathing, to say the least. "No
selection process, purely random. So long as they cashed the cheques they'd fit as many
pieces as they could into the gallery - unviewable chaos".
Layla wrote some instructions out for Mrs C asking her to organise the framing and
where to send the picture.
"Zach," she called out.
"Yeah?" he was in the sitting room.
"A small favour..."
"What?" He wandered through, holding a magazine.
Layla busily folded a cheque, entry form and note into an envelope.
"Zach, now I know you think it's a load of crap, so spare me the comment, but I'm
entering my modest endeavour into The Bank exhibition,"
"What that chaotic..."
"Nope!" Layla cut his words short. "Just do me a favour, I'm leaving a note for Mrs C,
it's quite self explanatory but if she's not clear then make sure she finds my picture."
Layla plumped the envelope inside the wooden Chinese egg where she usually left Mrs
50
C's money. "It's all here, but please just make sure she knows what I want, she's not the
sharpest pin in the tin." In fact it wasn't that she thought Mrs C lacked any assiduity but
that Zach had to feel responsible for someone else’s inadequacy so he would actually
bother checking; there was no time for a mistake with the entry deadline the next day.
Zach stood with his arms folded and a derisive expression on his face,
"Zach tell me, if someone from The Bank said I'm going to exhibit your work, would
you say tough, you can't, you're a bunch of naval gazing dopes devoid of taste? Any
recognition is appreciated if you ask me."
"Sure, but if I don't respect their opinions I shan't court their opinions," he said and
sauntered out of the room.
“Yup, I get it, no compromise,” Layla sighed.
51
CHAPTER FOUR
The next morning Zach had successfully postponed working on his painting for the Miss
Consuela project. He had sent out an email to every contact he had an, address for,
asking if they knew anyone in Uruguay, or better still in the Uruguayan banking sector.
None of his friends did. Amazing amongst such an international, well travelled bunch the
nearest he could get to Uruguay was Costa Rica. Might as well have been China.
"Cooeee!" sang Mrs C. Zach slipped off his chair keeping one eye on the electronic
organiser,
"Hello Mrs C," he said lifting off her coat and absent-mindedly hanging it on the
fridge door. Mrs C removed the coat and put it on the coat hook then peered over his
shoulder. When she saw his absorption was an electronic gadget she tossed her chin and
exuded a deep sigh as if to say even the good Mr Eliot had succumbed.
“Brisk out there, ooh,” she shivered. Laboriously she got onto her knees to rummage in
the cupboard and retrieve her bucket of cleaning materials and bewildering assortment of
cloths. She wrapped her pinny round her middle, it had long since stopped warranting
the term waist, tied a sharp knot and set to her work.
The doorbell rang. He walked down the corridor and could see the outline of a female
through the smoked glass of the front door. His face still fixed in an amused grin he
pulled open the door and found himself facing a striking young woman, who returned his
broad smile.
“Glad you’re pleased to see me.”
52
Slim, long red hair tied back, particularly round brown eyes, her hands tucked into the
pockets of a green full-length wool cardigan. She stood in a peculiar way, shoulder leant
nonchalantly against the porch. Her mouth was ready to burst into laughter, she seemed
to be relishing the surprise, but he had no idea at all who she was. Zach floundered and
cleared his throat. "Hi," she snapped a smile and did she just widen her eyes with bright
promise?
"Hi," said Zach staring at her, waiting for enlightenment.
"How you doing?" She tipped her head and her pony tail swished out behind her back.
"Fine," Zach smiled back, because he couldn't think what else to do.
The girl shrugged and grinned apparently waiting for him to invite her in. She glanced
down the corridor. "Oh, would you like to come in?" said Zach completely flummoxed
by her familiarity and unable to ask her who she was.
"I think that's why I'm here," she said laughing and stepped past Zach pulling her
shoulders up to her ears as if this was the most fun she'd had in a long time.
Zach followed her down the corridor, taking in her exaggerated walk, which whisked the
flowing cardigan from side to side. He played back her voice in his head for any sign of
recognition. She stopped suddenly and Zach bumped into her back. She laughed and
leant back against the wall pointing with a bony finger towards the kitchen, "this way?
Or which way?" she sounded positively suggestive.
Zach cleared his throat and overtook her hurrying into the kitchen. It was full of
53
domestic efficiency, it seemed safe.
"Coffee?" she asked.
"That's my line isn't it?" said Zach.
For a moment he couldn't remember where the coffee or kettle was, his mind
was racing. Did he have an appointment? He reached for his organiser but had no idea
how to find appointments and didn't recollect inputting any; he tossed it back on the
table. She was sitting on a stool at the bar now, the cardigan had fallen open to reveal
small feet shod in soft green leather, neat verdant points at the end of bright red nylon
clad legs and a checked wool mini skirt.
What on earth was this supine and colourful and vaguely familiar creature doing perched
on a stool in his house. He ran through the various improbable options that sprung to
mind. The most improbably being that in the middle of the night he had slept walked and
accidentally ordered a prostitute.
“The kettle’s there,” she pointed to the kettle two foot from his hands.
Zach grabbed the kettle to fill it up with water. The plug yanked and the kettle crashed
to the counter. He forgot they had broken the cordless one and this was not a cordless
kettle, which had been dragged up from the basement, was obviously attached to the
wall. He swabbed up water trying to remember how he used to get the kettle to the tap or
the water to the kettle.
"So it's nice to see you, on your own," said the red stockinged nymph.
"hrumph," Zach said, or something like it squeezing water out of the j cloth.
54
"I promised I would come round and look at your etchings," she giggled.
Zach pretended to look in the cupboard for coffee. Was it April the first? Was this a
prank by Mickey? He'd kill him. "So you didn't expect to see me again?" "Nope," said
Zach emphatically, glad of an opportunity to give some sort of firm answer.
"I am surprised, I had the impression you kept an open house. All welcome." "Most,
yes," said Zach leaning back against the counter. What could that mean? If he didn't
make her welcome would she turn psychotic? Surely the answer was more mundane.
Perhaps she was a neighbour?
"You have no idea who I am," the girl smiled sort of pitifully at Zach. Zach threw up his
hands in submission.
"None whatsoever," relieved to admit it.
"You don't remember me the other night?" He shook his head, embarrassment creeping
all over his shoulders. "I lay just about there," she pointed to a place by his feet, "two
inches from your big toe and you don't remember me. Shame. I remember you. Coffee?"
she pointed to a jar on the shelf. "Sean brought me here, we smoked, talked about art, I
enjoyed myself." Zach slapped his head, "Of course I remember you." He certainly knew
Sean and it was quite likely he had introduced the girl to him. So many people traipsed
through his sitting room; students, artists, friends and friends of friends.
"Then what's my name?"
"Genevieve?” A guess he knew couldn’t possibly be right.
"Beautiful name, I'm flattered, but no, I am Adrianne." She held out her hand to
55
reintroduce herself. "I hope you don't mind me dropping in like this?"
"Gosh, no, thanks for coming by Adrianne. How's Sean?"
"Sean's gawn," she laughed.
"Gawn?"
"Yup, skedaddled. I don't want to talk about it," her smile was a little more fixed, then it
relaxed again. "Actually I really did come to see your etchings."
"Now I'm old but not that old,"
"Okay, I'll settle for your paintings. I saw some on the stairs the other night, they looked
fab, I'd love to see more." She suddenly swiveled off the stool and headed to the back of
the kitchen towards the studio. Zach hesitated between pouring the water and chasing
her down. He dumped the kettle and caught up with her too late. Adrianne was in the
back of the studio flicking through canvasses lined up against the wall. “These are fab!”
“They’re very old. I did them in Tibet.”
“I can see that. I mean things are more abstract nowadays.” Zach’s warm glow of
appreciation fizzled out. “Gosh you are so traditional,” she hammered on.
“Traditional?”
“Totally traditional, yeah retro. I love it!”
Adrianne continued flicking through the canvasses, exclaiming ooh and ahh,
enthusiastically.
"You've been to Tibet?" Zach asked as she collected a painting and held it up to the light.
"Well, Hong Kong, same thing, yeah,"
"Not really,” said Zach watching her rummage uninhibited through his work.
56
In ten minutes a score of pieces that he hadn't looked at, literally for years, were
leant up against the windows, the walls, against chests. The room was a catalogue of
almost fifteen years of creative output. He wasn't entirely sure if it was a good display.
"You're interested in art?"
"Absolutely. Oh what's this?"
She had picked up Layla’s ‘Shadows’ from the easel. “I like that,” she said as her
interest visibly moved on. “More, um modern? Something recent?”
"My wife did it."
Adrianne's eyes flickered incomprehension just for a moment. "Married huh?” Adrianne
dropped the picture on the table.
"Afraid so," Zach clenched his buttocks. Why did he say that? Because no matter how
uninterested he was in his young visitor, her flirtatious manner was obvious and he just
hated to disappoint people.
"You must be successful." Adrianne's eyes took in the London garden, the high ceilings
of the glass studio and the promise of many spacious floors above.
"No, my wife is." This provoked a different laugh.
"With those?" Adrianne pointed at the canvas disparagingly.
Zach shook his head and put Layla's drawing down carefully. "Her business." "Dynamic
woman I expect."
"Dynamic she is."
57
"Very busy," Adrianne didn't elaborate on the remark but from her arch tone Zach
sensed it had implications. "Does your wife like your paintings?"
"Yes, I think so. Sugar?"
"Nope, sweet enough."
"I'm sure you are," he said, again with that noncommittal tone. Forgiving her cliché
because she was young,
"You know I thought it odd that an artist and someone so, well so interested in other
worlds would live somewhere so bourgeois."
"Bourgeois?" Zach looked at his kitchen and the presumptuous girl leaning on his ever
so bourgeois breakfast bar.
"Yes. There you are surrounded by intellectual radicals and refugees from Tibet and you
live in Acacia Avenue."
"I would hardly call North London Acacia Avenue."
"It's a bit grown up though isn't it."
"I am grown up. More grown up than you." He folded his arms and then purposefully
unfolded them not wishing to look defensive.
Adrianne grabbed a piece of her hair and strung it across her top lip, "You are as young
as the woman you feel," she said in a New York accent. "I don't envy your wife, she's
some high powered executive right? Works all day and night?"
Zach agreed quietly to himself as Adrianne went on with her opinion. "Where's the
living? I mean when does she ever stop to look at life?" Zach thought about Layla,
58
Adrianne certainly had a point. “I would much rather live your life. Be a kept woman
and paint all day.” Zach was about to bloody protest when suddenly sharp she said
"Who's your dealer?"
"My dealer?"
"Your agent?" Adrianne pursed her lips, the question hovering on her face until
Zach collected her meaning and instinctively replied Jerry Far, still smarting from her
jibe.
"The Jerry Far gallery?" Adrianne's eyes glinted for another unguarded moment then she
stuck another strand of red hair in her mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. After a while
she said, "You're with the Jerry Far gallery? That's so cool!" Zach folded his arms and
tightened them this time. "It's just that he is really cutting edge and,"
"And?"
"And you're so retro." Zach had hoped to head off any offence but this girl was blunt.
"You know I have a few ideas myself."
Zach laughed at himself and took a swig of coffee. He should have seen this coming, it
had happened often enough.
"Do you think you could introduce me to Jerry Far?"
Zach was always affable on this point. He knew it was nigh impossible to find a gallery
or dealer without some introduction. He hardly ever followed up unless the individual
was particularly persistent. "Well, if your stuff is very good he's open to new artists.
Where did you study?"
"Oh I haven't studied art."
59
"But where did you train or are you just naturally talented?" he waved an arm in the air.
"I don't know about talent. Anyway no point in being talented in this scene if you don't
know anyone."
"But not much point in knowing `anyone' if you have no talent."
"You'd be surprised." Probably not thought Zach feeling rather like an exhausted salmon
at the end of a line. He looked at his watch. Then Mrs C bustled in and headed through
the kitchen out to the studio. Her lips were pursed and he could see she was making a big
effort not to look sideways at Adrianne.
Seeing Mrs C’s disapproval and that she was preparing to leave, Zach was conscious
he’d be without his unelected chaperone.
“Well time I got back to work myself,” he muttered.
“Okie dokie!” Adrianne sang out but the only part of her that moved were her lips into a
slightly mocking grin.
Mrs C collected her money from the wooden Chinese duck. She found her note and Zach
heard her bustling about the studio. Two minutes later she strutted back through the
kitchen. “I’ll be off then,” she paused for a response. Zach glanced at the bag she had
held up.
“Thanks Mrs C. All’s well then? Got the pic?” But the cleaning lady didn’t reply except
for a censorious quiver to her bottom lip, which made him feel undeservedly guilty.
Mrs C stared at the young visitor and back at her employer and noticed in turn his guilty
60
expression. Well she thought, any other employer and she and Harold would find an
entire evening's conversation with this one. She pursed her lips together and gave him a
look her own son was extremely familiar with on the rare occasions he had told a lie.
"Thank you then, see you on Tuesday," said Zach mustering up his charming smile with
difficulty. She nodded good day to Adrianne who flashed her own broad smile but Mrs
C could see it never reached her eyes. Snob, she thought to herself and disappeared out
the door.
"So a woman who does."
"Does?"
"Does for you. How very,"
"Bourgeois," finished Zach in a flat tone.
"Well I don't like cleaning either." Adrianne said with some empathy. "Now," she looked
about her, "coffee? Or would you prefer to come out for lunch? There's an exhibition at
the Tate Modern, I’d love you to give me the benefit of your wisdom."
"Not much wisdom to offer and like I said I’ve really got to get back to work." Zach said
carefully.
Adrianne made a puffing noise, dismissing the notion and grabbed Zach's arm
dragging him into his studio. He waited at the door as she advanced waving her hands
over the canvases. "You are an extremely talented man," she said breathily, swinging her
parcel from the string tied loosely round her wrist. Zach glanced at it for a mere second
and immediately Adrianne said, "Want to see what I've brought?" Zach had no chance to
61
reply, "I promised to show you my work."
Zach leant on the counter and crossed his legs, assuming the encouraging interested look
he adopted for these situations.
"You'll have to come to the house to see the rest," she said picking at the string.
"Where's the house?" Zach imagined a many floored mansion in Oxford. "We're just
around the corner from you actually, Archway. We call it an artists' commune, anyone
can live there so long as they are artistic. You should come over, get out of this middle
class rut. Come over, come and stay!” she winked.
Zach nodded his head abstractedly, how they would actually decide who was ‘artistic’ he
was wondering.
"I'll give you the address. She scrawled on the top sheet of his good cartridge paper,
which made Zach wince. She tore it out of the pad leaving half the sheet behind and
thrust it into the top pocket of his shirt, then she turned to her work. "Here we go!" she
pulled out a small picture. It was actually not bigger than his hand. A chunky blonde
frame with high set glass, layers of mount in descending order like an inverted pyramid
tunneling down to the centre piece, a minuscule dot.
Zach stared at the piece, keeping his arms folded. These sorts of pictures scared him, he
was completely unable to appreciate this sort of effort, was it him? Was it crap? But she
pushed it towards him so he could not refuse to take it. "Nice dot," he said.
"It is exquisite," she agreed without a hint of satire.
"A portrait huh," Zach said full of satire.
62
"You've got it! Not everyone does, I knew you would." She took the picture back and
held it by the light. "I love the colour too. What do you think?"
"Black?" It just looked like a black dot in a white mount.
"Green," she chastised him. "We live on the green planet. Well until America incinerates
us. How do you feel when you look at this painting?"
Zach didn't answer and fortunately Adrianne was too wrapped up in admiring the
cleverness of her work. "This is something you react to. It says what you want it to say,
it is whatever you want it to be."
"Mmm, and to you it's a portrait," he remembered an old art tutor speaking just like that,
arms folded, brow arched with a gentle interest. She certainly had all the vocabulary of
the student.
"To me it is a portrait of insignificance. Man's insignificance in the universe." She
relaxed her arms and gave a broad satisfied smile. Zach gripped that encouraging smile
onto his face.
"Come on," she charged towards him making Zach shrink back, "I don't fancy a coffee.
Let's go out. I've never been outside with you," she giggled and hooked her arm in his.
Zach tried unravelling his arm but she had it in a firm clinch.
"Really I've got to work," he protested, aware that he was not vehement enough and his
secret half that always hankered after distraction was letting him be dragged by the
sleeve towards the coats.
"Which one's yours?" She rifled through the various cloths and leathers. Zach spotted his
63
suede jacket and found himself hitching it over his shoulders whilst Adrianne was half
way out the door. "Come on," she caught his arm and he virtually fell over the doorstep.
They rushed down the street, or she rushed and he trotted behind her, caught up in the
slipstream. She headed straight down the main road, without even looking back, but
Zach kept after her. A too thin man in a torn red fleece, sitting on the pavement against a
lampost, put his hand out, "Spare any change love?" she jumped carelessly over his legs
as if he were a piece of street furniture in the wrong place and kept on at a fast pace.
She finally stopped to swing through the open doors of a double decker. Zach followed,
his personal willpower given up in the sudden chase. He climbed the stairs and slumped
into a seat beside her, hands in pockets looking about doubtfully.
"I just love the Rabid Rooms in the gallery, they are full of the most radical stuff." The
Rabid Rooms at the gallery contained the most useless collection Zach had ever seen in a
gallery; talentless garbage he wanted to say. "People just don't get it. They say where's
the skill but that's such a sexist opinion."
"Sexist?"
"Yes typical masculinism, looking for a rational critique. Tools, craft, completely unable
to see on a higher level to the concept, the idea."
"So you don't think you need any skill to be an artist?"
"Not necessarily at all. We're not ironmongers. We're thinkers. Art is our way of
communicating ideas. Why should art be limited to people who can draw?"
64
"Because that is how you create a pretty picture," offered Zach.
"A pretty picture. We don't have to make pictures. We don't have to confine ourselves to
one medium. We can use whatever materials we like. Oh don't be so old fashioned." She
prodded him in the ribs. "I bet you don't like pop music either."
No thought Zach, feeling old and entrenched in the certainty of his own artistic values.
"Ooh!" she yelled and suddenly Zach was being pushed out of his seat and propelled
down the stairs of the bus, her knobbly fist urging him on. "Jump off, here, jump!" Zach
jumped and she jumped after him, grabbing his shoulders for balance. Then she was
darting across the road, his hand in hers. "You absolutely must try the sushi in this
place." They were heading towards a tiny door which opened straight onto a narrow
staircase. At the bottom of the stairs was a grey cloth emblazoned with Japanese
characters. "Flower shop," said Zach.
"Flowers?"
"The name of the restaurant, Hanaya, flower shop."
"You read Japanese?" Adrianne stopped abruptly and Zach bumped into her. He was
about to admit that he did but then he saw Adrianne's lips turning a supernatural glossy
red and her eyes were growing into huge Disney-like circles. "Only two or three words,"
he said with some instinct of preservation. The mesmeric moment dissolved, she
blinked, gave a little sigh then carried on down the stairs.
They ate sushi at the bar. Zach allowed Adrianne to order for him, he was scared to show
any knowledge of anything. It seemed to him that whatever he did, sent this rather over
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excitable girl into a paroxysm of enthusiasm. When the bill came she allowed him to pay
for her. He wasn’t sure how that had happened, he certainly hadn’t offered.
Back on a bus they were heading down the South Bank. "I am so thrilled to be going out
with you," Zach shifted in his seat and looked about him circumspectly, then she
whispered in his ear, "Frightened you'll be spotted off your leash," Zach nodded
vigorously and this brought on more laughter. "Lord, surely your wife is more modern
than that. She works, she wears trousers, aren't you allowed to art galleries with
members of the opposite sex?"
"Probably," said Zach, wondering if he was.
“These power crazed business women don’t understand the artistic spirit,” she gave
Zach a soft sympathetic pout.
Zach shifted in his bus seat. "No," Zach said, at the same time conscious of his betrayal.
He looked out the window and for a brief moment he wondered if he understood Layla
at all. Then tried to dismiss the idea, of course he understood Layla. But then something
inside him made him ask the question again. Did he know what was important to her?
Money was important to her, or otherwise why did she do all this high-powered stuff?
But he knew that wasn’t the case. The Bank entry was important to her. He sneered
inwardly and at that point in a horrible conjunction of bad feelings something terrible
dawned on him.
“Got to go!”
“What’s up?”
“I’m sorry, monumental balls up, absolutely have to go.” Zach patted Adrianne on the
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shoulder avoiding a kiss, or hand shake and fled, hurrying down the bus aisle winging
from post to post.
“Ooh so spontaneous!”
“Bye!”
"You're mad! I hope so anyway!" she called after him laughing. She listened to Zach’s
feet thumping on the stairs then peered out of the bus window to see him charging back
down the street.
Zach, darted through the cars, crossing the road at a jog glancing over his shoulder for a
28 bus to take him back the other way. He caught up with another 28 bus stuck at the
lights and thumped on the door. Then kicked the side as the bus pulled off without him.
By the time he was home he had persuaded half his brain that he was over reacting. Mrs C
had it under control. She'd had her bag, that capacious bag with her. He strained to
remember seeing it when she had left. What exactly was in it?
He opened the front door breathing deeply to calm himself and tried to believe that he
need not bother going into the studio, it wasn't necessary, all was fine. But then of course
his legs insisted he be sure. He walked through the kitchen with a fragile smile on his
face. His first glance was of `The Girl', he peered round the back of the easel. It wasn't
there. Thank God. Then he froze and felt his stomach clench up. He slumped into his
wicker chair and pulled at his hair making a whimpering noise. There it was; on the table
where Adrianne had tossed it. He stopped whimpering and tried to reason with himself.
"So what's the big deal?" he said out loud. Layla thought she was entering a competition
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and now she hasn't. She hasn't entered anything in years; she hasn't painted in years. He
hit his head and the other half took over. That was the bloody point. This was the first
time since Tibet that she had managed a small piece of self expression and very eloquent
it was. And he had ignored it, forgotten it and passed up her chance.
Zach tipped back on the seat and stared at the sky through the glass roof. She would be
really, really angry if she found the painting still sitting on the bloody table.
He watched the clouds shift soothingly across his vision. This view had inspired her
picture. She hadn't looked around or in but up, smart. He reached for the picture, and
forced himself to look at it. It was a good effort, just good though. Surely it would never
have won, probably wouldn't have even gained a spot in the exhibition; not sufficiently
ridiculous. It was far too accurate you could actually see what she had drawn.
He considered phoning Mrs C but he had no idea where she lived or what her
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number was. He looked at his watch. He pulled out a phone book and quickly
dialled the two framers that he knew were in the vicinity. Neither had seen a short
Tiggy Winkleish woman asking to frame something, not that he knew what that
thing might be. Perhaps she went to a framers near her own home or near the
gallery or anywhere in between.
Still holding the picture he cast about for his electronic organiser. He whisked
through the numbers but couldn't find B for The Bank. He dumped it and pulled
out a frayed address book, found the number and dialled, now more frantic than
ever. He would retrieve whatever Mrs C had sent in and ask them to wait for him to
bring the correct entry over.
A studied male voice answered, slow, enunciating every syllable. Zach blurted out
his problem. "I've sent in the wrong picture. My wife's picture, I've not sent it.
You've got the wrong one."
"Really," said the voice resonating disinterest.
"Really," Zach matched his disinterest with antagonism. “Basically I have to
retrieve the picture I’ve sent in and swap it for the correct one.”
“I am sorry sir,” he said managing not to sound remotely sorry, “we are receiving
numerous entries. We are rather busy.” Zach heard an aside to someone else,
“Won’t be a second Susie,”
“I am sure you are but the thing is I need that picture back,” he pressed.
"I heard you and we are rather busy," the voice replied testily.
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Zach realised he needed to try a new tack, antagonism was getting him nowhere.
"I've made a really bad mistake. I am in big trouble," he pleaded. There was
silence the other end. "Look this one was being dropped off by hand today, how
many entries will you get on your last day? I could come over and identify it. It
won't take you any time at all."
"Sir this is The Bank. We receive a flood of entries and most come in on the last
day. Anyway so many look so similar. Last year we had three entries all made up
of the same supermarket plastic bags. One college project and I can't tell you the
lack of originality..."
"Yes but this will be totally original,"
"You say," the voice resonated finality and impatience. There was no scorn like
the gallery exec.
"Look we're losing track here, I'm sure I'll recognise the entry and I'll just take it
out and pop another one in,"
"Absolutely not. These are private pieces of work. There are some plagiarists
about you know."
"You're kidding yourself if you think I have any interest in copying the rubbish..."
"I'm so sorry, actually I have to go right now,"
"Right now, you have to go?" Zach loathed this phrase, "As opposed to later,"
"Yes, good bye,"
"Have pity," Zach yelped, eating his words. "My wife will be furious."
"Well you shouldn't have got married," the voice declared acidly and the line went
dead.
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Zach held Layla's picture up in front of him. "Christ you wouldn't have won." He
tossed it back on the table. "And who would want that gallery to endorse anything
anyway. Let some plastic bag get the accolade."
A door key scraped in the latch. Zach's heart missed a beat. He grabbed the picture
and began to run, with little thought but instinctive preservation. He headed
straight down the corridor, slightly relieved to recognise Kit's silhouette behind
the glass. He ducked into the sitting room hopping about with the painting as if it
were hot and lethal. He shoved it under the sofa and threw himself on the
cushions. Kit walked past the door. He had brought home Ollie from school. For
the past three days Zach had managed to get Ollie’s mother to collect Kit, and
take him home for tea. Now it was his turn and she was still collecting them and
delivering them to his door. Result!
"Hi dad,"
"Hi," replied Zach. He sounded hoarse, he cleared his throat, took a deep breath
and went out to see Kit. It felt like a chocolate toastie moment to him.
“Have a fun day? Hi Ollie,” Zach raised a hand and Ollie anticipated a high five,
then Zach raised the other and put his palms together in a salaam. “Awe!” Ollie
shrugged, caught out.
“No it wasn’t fun,” grumbled Kit.
“What?”
“School wasn’t fun. I completely forgot about my homework and got into
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trouble.”
"Never mind I'm making something special." Zach pulled out bread and a~
chocolate bar. Kit wandered on into the studio.
"Where is it?" Kit reappeared leaning on the doorframe.
"What?" said Zach grating chocolate aggressively.
"My homework." Zach grated his thumb knuckle and shoved it into his mouth.
"Has Mrs C tidied it up." He called over the running water, shaking his very
painful thumb and ran it under a tap. Kit chased up the stairs to see if Mrs C had
put it away in his room.
Zach had to make some plans to diffuse what was an increasingly tricky situation.
He knew this wasn't just about the picture, this was about Layla's life and
consequently his, just as American Ray had said; hers needed improving
otherwise his was going to change. It wasn't about wild sex any more he just
needed to maintain some sort of status quo. This evening he would make sure
Layla had time to draw or paint, or do anything her creative instinct desired. He
looked about for things that might irritate her. The house was spotless thanks to
Mrs C, Mrs C! Bloody fur brained creature. What keeps Layla busy when she
comes in? He tried to recollect her routine. "Dinner!" he announced to the kitchen.
Kit was back.
"It's not up there," Kit said frustrated.
"What shall we make for your mother's dinner?" He asked ignoring Kit’s worried
face.
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"What shall we make? We can't cook," said Kit picking up his backpack.
"No such word can’t, come on, we are going to give your mother a break." "Look
Dad, I'm ten and besides it you want to give mum a break perhaps she would like
me to finish my homework? Then she won't have to nag me about it."
"True, true," Zach scrutinised Kit for a moment. Smart ass he thought. "And I
wouldn't make her anything with chocolate, it's not very healthy and it will annoy
her."
"Okay, okay, you're right, off you go. The paper and glue is in the studio, and
make sure it's finished before dinner," he said trying to maintain some semblance
of authority. Ollie trailed after Kit into the studio.
Zach pulled down a recipe book and browsed through looking for something
nutritional but not too interesting. Lately he had been rather experimental and
realised he was in danger of being too good at cooking. He had no intention of
taking on the role of family chef on a permanent basis. Anyway for some reason
the only food that really inspired him was chocolate. He loved chocolate and he
had the metabolism to cope with it. He never put on weight and he had great teeth;
he could eat as much chocolate as he liked. It was unctuous, delicious and
comforting. But Layla didn't share his enthusiasm, so cooking would never be a
truly creative outlet for him.
Zach was upstairs when he heard Layla’s voice, she was back from work. "Hello
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Ollie, how's your mother? Is her wrist better now?"
"Yes it is, thank you Mrs Elliot."
Zach mimicked the boy's words and ever so polite face reserved for his wife. He
knew it irritated her that Kit's friends invariably called him Zach and her Mrs
Elliot.
Downstairs Layla took in the warm homely smell. It was so unexpected, she almost felt tearful
with gratitude. She knew she was too tired. Zach sauntered up the corridor, unusually pleased
with himself. He took her coat and kissed her, "Dinner is ready," he announced.
Kit called out hello, as she passed the sitting room. She saw him chewing a pencil, his homework
on his lap. The house was neat, the kids were studious, and her husband had made dinner, at last
she'd walked into fantasy life.
Zach called Kit and Ollie to the table. Kit appeared holding another white base and a
black card stuck across it. "How does that look?"
“Why another one?”
"Now, now, let your mother relax," Zach pressed Kit into his chair and quickly placed the hot
pot of stew in front of him. He whisked the lid off with a flourish, but when he saw the
contents he realised he had missed the balance in not appearing too good and making an
effort. The stew was solid. “Perhaps a bit heavy on the flour,” he suggested apologetically.
“And heat,” Layla murmured, disappointment making a big hole in her stomach.
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“Yes, perhaps that too.”
But the candle flickered and the wine was pleasantly warm which Layla and Zach used to fill
themselves, unable to find anything edible on their plates. Kit and his friend seemed to
enjoy the concoction. Young teeth thought Zach and too young to know better. He and
Layla watched their son with curiosity, neither sure if the food would make him ill but not
wishing to actually pronounce Zach’s effort indigestible. Kit finished his dinner. He looked
at his parents, both unusually quiet, sipping wine and not eating. He licked his fork.
“Nice one Dad,”
“Yeah great,” agreed Ollie.
“Can we be excused?”
“Sure boys.”
“Come on I’ve got table football set up in the next room.” Kit strode out of the kitchen
tugging his friend’s sleeve.
Layla pushed her plate away and placed the glass of wine in front of her. She smiled at Zach
this time, her mouth closed as her tongue scooped round her mouth trying to dislodge the one
morsel she had risked. "Resilient wasn't it," Zach offered.
Layla tipped her chin and tossed off a certain look.
"We can pretend we're starving artists."
"Right. So did my work go off all right?" Layla began picking at her back teeth. "Mrs C can
be a bit dippy sometimes."
"Oh sure," Zach confirmed unspecifically.
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"Yeah, I've submitted to the Bank," Layla put on a casual drawl.
"Just so long as you remember you cannot predict what will capture their imagination from
one day to the next. What their criteria is for good art I have not a clue." He put in a lot of
energy to loading up the dishwasher. "So just don't take offence if your entry isn't included in
the exhibition, it won't be a measure of your ability.”
Layla made a neat pile of the crumbs in front of her. “I’ll be happy with a rejection letter.”
Zach wondered how he might engineer that.
While he was trying to remove dinner from the bottom of the pan with a chisel Zach listened
to the boys’ hoots and shouts over the football table. “Shoot, saved, shoot, saved, shoot,
oooooooh, nearly!”
Layla wandered into the sitting room to watch but found her son buried under the sofa his
bum in the air.
“He’s lost the ball,” explained Ollie, spinning the table football handle. “It’s somewhere
under the sofa.”
Layla waited for her son to emerge which he finally did, his hair electric, sticking up on end,
his face red and his eyes scrunched up from the dust. The door burst open and slammed into
Layla’s shoulder, “Christ Zach!” she glared at her husband who was glaring at Kit. Very
irritated she turned back to Kit.
In his right hand was the ball and in his left a picture. Zach jumped in front of Layla.
“All right boys?” his eyes darted about wildly.
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Kit stood up and wiped away dust from his face, then tossed the ball onto the table and turned
the picture to look at it more closely. "Hey!" he said then fell quiet, apparently having second
thoughts. Zach thrust out a hand and snatched the picture from Kit. Layla stared at the paper,
rudely ripped from Kit's hand by her husband. He seemed unsure what to do with it next.
Layla stepped forward and relieved him of the evidence. She left the room without saying a
word. Zach didn’t move until Kit spoke up.
“I think mum would like to talk to you." Zach nodded sheepishly and followed Layla out of
the room. Thirty seconds later they heard Layla's shriek.
"Wow, your dad's so cool why's your mum yelling like that?"
“He's in big trouble," Kit murmured thoughtfully, then shrugged. "Come on, let's go up to my
room and listen to some music." The two of them trundled upstairs.
"What the hell are you doing?" Layla waved her picture in front of Zach's face. "Why didn't
you send it in? What's the big bloody idea?" Zach ran his fingers through his hair, completely
unable to say anything that would remotely appease his wife who was skating through a
stream of invective. Finally exhausted Layla fell quiet, seeing it was his turn Zach's mouth
opened to state his case but no words came out. He realised it was going to be very difficult to
explain. He shook his head and took a seat at the table, stretched out his legs, leant back as if
laying himself open, then covered his face with his hands.
"This was my chance. My chance to do something that I really want to do, something to think
about whilst traipsing back and forth to that bloody office!" her voice was hoarse from
shouting and Zach realised this was deep distress.
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"Layla, Layla," Zach opened his hands beseechingly, she slapped at them. "You spend five
minutes encouraging me then forget all about it. So long as I'm paying the mortgage and
you’re buggering about with your canvases you don’t care do you!”
"I do care,"
"You do not care!" Layla's voice dived to a coarse growl, "Otherwise I wouldn't be holding
this bloody picture in my hands instead of it sitting in a pile at the Bank."
"Yes, sitting in a great huge pile. Let's just be rational for a moment," as the words fell out of
his mouth he realised he couldn't have been more inflammatory. Layla seemed to visibly
swell in size.
"Rational! What's so damned rational about what you've done? Or as usual not done! I asked
you to do one small thing for me. It's simple! Check on Mrs C and make sure the dizzy bat
takes my painting to the gallery! But did you? No! You, you...
"Calm down now,"
"Don't tell me to calm down!" she shrieked.
"Sorry, sorry," Zach hastened on, "what I'm trying to say is the Bank is an open exhibition.
Anyone with £100 can bring any old thing in. It will be heaving and there's absolutely no
telling what will win. Talent will have nothing to do with it; it's just another….another
Duchamp's urinal!"
He tried to touch her, she slapped him away again.
"Then if it's such crap I had half a bloody chance! And you, you didn't give me that!"
"Layla you had the slightest chance in the world, it was your first picture in ten years and you
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expect it to be exhibited and bought? So next time," he shrugged hopefully.
"Next time!" Layla spat out the words. "What next time? Just as you say I've been trying to
put something on paper for ten years but what with work, the food, the house and the
homework when am I meant to find the next time? This was my first chance and you paid it
absolutely no attention, too wrapped up in your own bloody life and bloody stupid hobbies,
whilst I, I work!"
"I work!" Zach hated the defensive tone in his voice.
“At your leisure!” She waved her arms at his studio.
"I work bloody hard!” Zach insisted and regretted it instantly.
"You call that work!" Zach watched Layla's body vibrating with a fury he had never known
was inside her. How he wondered could he not have seen this great anger building up in her?
Curious, he thought, until Layla's next words hit him across the head.
"That's not work. That's a lazy excuse to justify your way of life! Any ass can put paint on
paper; it takes talent, passion and a good deal more effort to call it work."
She collapsed in a chair fuming. Zach was bewildered, this was a personal blitzkrieg. He felt
unusually helpless unable to conjure up the wile or charm to respond. Layla’s breathing
slowed for a moment, Zach glimpsed hope of an exit, the only possible action, then suddenly
she gathered momentum, her face contorted with fury. She gulped a breath feeling she was
about to vent years of frustration, she attacked.
"I've watched you do exactly what you want to do, being true to your ideals whilst I
compromise my whole life to maintain those bloody ideals. Well I'd like to see how long your
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ideals last without me! You selfish useless - pig!"
"Pig?" Zach smiled, genuinely intrigued by the choice of word.
Layla hadn't insulted anyone since she was a child and that was the last insult she had used. It
was ridiculous. It made her feel ridiculous. It made her even more angry. "We've had it! I
don't want to see you for a long time!" She retreated up the stairs, kicking Zach's piles of
filing off the steps and slammed herself into her bedroom.
"Where are you going to go?" Zach called after her, grabbing at sheets of paper
and sketchpads tumbling onto the hall floor. "Your mother lives two hundred miles away. His
tone suggested she really shouldn't be so silly. Layla wrenched open the bedroom door.
"Going? I'm not going anywhere!” Zach didn’t like the emphasis on the ‘I’m’. She
disappeared. There was more door slamming. Zach stared up the staircase, wondering,
worrying.
After a while Kit and Ollie appeared in the kitchen. Zach was sitting at the table, hands on his
lap, his eyes staring ahead. He was feeling strangely numb and a horrible dread that life was
going to change for the worse. He shook his head and pulled a grin on his face. "So boys,
what's happening?" His voice sounded croaky.
"Ollie's off. His mum’s outside in the car.”
“Uh, yes, bye Ollie. I'll play you next time," he made twisting movements with his fists.
Having seen Ollie out Kit came back in and sat next to Zach. His father turned a meek face
towards him and rolled his lips together.
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"Your mother's angry."
Kit nodded. "She was quite excited about that exhibition wasn't she."
"Yup. The thing is Mrs C was meant to do it... and then I was distracted...." Zach shook his
head it was all too complicated to explain. Besides he was busy thinking about something else
altogether; not what he'd done but what he thought she now expected him to do.
Kit took a carton of milk out of the fridge, sat in front of his father and gulped down the
contents. Empty he lobbed the container into the bin like a basketball. "I'm off to bed,"
"Just like that?" Zach had the feeling he deserved a bit more sympathy.
"Yeah, school tomorrow."
Zach hit his head, he was so wrong.
" ’Night Kit." He waved weakly, miserable with himself. Then suddenly he twisted round,
"Hey wait a moment. Kit," he indicated the seat again, "Look I do believe I'm going to take a
bit of a walk," he cleared his throat and tried to look upbeat. "Sometimes Kit, you just need to
take your life and give it a good shake. Lift it up, hold it in the wind and give it a damn good
shaking. I need to take a big step back to really shake, so the, um," the analogy had grown
more convoluted than Zach had anticipated, "step back, so the dust and dirt doesn't settle on,
um, you." He passed the back of his hand across Kit's cheek. Kit watched his dad shifting
back and forth on his seat. "Anyway I think I'll go out for a bit, maybe stay out for a night."
"You're leaving?"
"Nope, don't be daft," although he was taken aback by how sanguine his son seemed to be.
"I'm just going to have a breather. You see when you have really upset someone, well the
thing is I've really upset your mother. "Kit nodded. Zach ruffled his hair and kissed him
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goodnight.
"It's for the best I guess," this caught Zach off guard. “I mean Mum’s really angry.”
"Yep, really. Give Mum some space." Zach nodded slow agreement, wishing his son would
fling himself in his arms and tell him to stay whatever Layla thought.
He mooched about the kitchen, trying to do obviously helpful things. Upstairs he heard Layla
saying good night to Kit. Growing increasingly agitated he wondered just what form his
expulsion was going to take, he was coming to terms with the fact that he was being expelled.
He couldn't believe it though. He was already missing his special coffee in the morning and
that chocolate croissant in the bread bin. Perhaps if he went out immediately Layla would
cool off in a few hours. He'd come back and get that stone light out and give her a massage.
From now on he would make a genuine effort. Although God knows, what more could a man
do?
With the relief resolve brings he decided to tell Layla he was off out for a bit, save her the
trouble, apologise profusely for being so selfish, promise to change and make sure she
painted one picture a month if he had to carry her into the studio himself.
There was a loud crash in the corridor. He peered through the door and saw his holdall lying
on its side at the foot of the stairs. It was ominously full. Perhaps, she had more than a few
hours in mind. He peered up the stairs. There was silence. He picked up his bag. He put one
foot on the bottom stair thinking he should have a few words, then he recognised the sound of
a chair being dragged across their bedroom floor. It seemed she didn't want to talk about
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things. He crept up and hissed through the door.
“Laaylaa…Layla?”
“I’ve told you we’ve had it! I’ve explained to Kit, now go. I don’t want to see you for a long
time.”
“You’ve explained to Kit? What exactly…”
“Go!”
“Layla! Layla?”
But there was not another word.
He was on his way out then, for a night, at least. A whole night. He daren't open the bag and
count the underpants. He returned to the kitchen, opened a cupboard and took out three bars
of chocolate then turned to the sink and gulped down a glass of water. As a last thought he
went to the loo.
****
Once outside with the evening air on his face he felt strangely exhilarated, like a kid leaving
home after bedtime. He stood on the doorstep and considered which way to go first. He went
left and walked up to The Queens Head, a pub strangely he had never been into. He pushed
open the door and paused. It was crowded with red faces glowing with beer. They were all
staring up at a high corner where a large television screen held sway like some contemporary
God. A team clad in bright yellow was playing football against a team in red.
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Zach ordered his own beer and sat in a far corner. He opened his bag to see what Layla had
packed. His electronic organiser sat on the top of the pile, next to the glowing stone light, that
hurt. Thankfully she'd put in his mobile phone. Even in her rage she'd had more selfpossession and practicality than he ever had. It had never occurred to him to bring either the
phone or the organiser. How else would he call his friends, where was he going to stay?
Desperate to find some small remnant of sentimental days he pulled open each zip and
pocket, he found an old tissue, a two Euro coin and his passport. Grief he would have looked
for that forever if he’d needed it. He was pretty sure Layla hadn’t packed it; her idea of exile
was not a trip abroad.
He picked up the electronic organiser and flicked through the address list, starting at A, in fact
he had reached G before he found someone he knew would be in the country; the rest were in
far flung corners of the world. There was Carl, but he lived in Bristol, might as well be Tibet,
not exactly accessible for the night. He scrolled through the names and addresses, Leicester,
Luton and Canterbury, why did his friends all live so far away? No wonder they all met at his
place, he was the only one who lived anywhere near civilisation. Ah Nigel, he would try him.
At least Clapham was London, just about. He called the number and the phone was answered
after ten long rings, or at least lifted off the receiver. Then there was a lot of clattering as
whoever it was tried to get the phone to their face. Finally there was a grunt.
"Oh, hello is Nigel there?" Zach asked in a polite voice, not sure what he was dealing with the
other end.
"Yup," the voice sounded like it was in a pillow.
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"Well could I have a word?"
"Hmm "
Zach waited to be passed on to Nigel, feeling a slight panic rise in him as he
glanced at his watch and saw the frosty night sky through the window.
"Hello?"
A long slow breath expelled a sound that might have been yeah.
"Look is Nigel there?"
"Yeah,"
"Where?"
"Here,"
"Is that you Nigel?" Zach couldn't recognise this muffled voice at all.
"Sure,"
"Hey it's Zach,"
"Hey Zach," Nigel replied seemingly unaware of who he actually was.
"Where are you Nigel, you sound sort of distant?"
"On the floor,"
"Oh right, having a lie down."
"Yeah.
Zach rubbed his face, this was hopeless. He knew exactly what was wrong with
Nigel and it wasn't just an overwhelming bout of lethargy. Then he heard
snoring. Feeling a tide of self-pity wash over him Zach hung up.
God his friends could be real wasters sometimes. He was beginning to empathise a little with
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Layla. He had never imagined a bed for the night would be so difficult to find, especially
given how many beds he'd provided over the years.
Then he thought of Jerry, now he was not a waster, he had a gorgeous flat in a most desirable
part of London; that would suit nicely. He dialed Jerry's number, the answer phone clicked on
and his crisp tones explained that he was out. Zach left a message which barely disguised his
desperation.
He looked out the window again, the sky was dark and the evening so clear it actually looked
cold, he didn't want to feel it. He opened his wallet. The first thing he saw was his credit card
peeping out of the top slot. A hotel. If Layla threw him onto the street she could pay for a
hotel. He pulled out the card to kiss it and immediately noticed the change in its size. Half of
it had been snipped away. Terrific, he flung his wallet on the table. "Vicious cow!" he
muttered. He looked up and saw a row of faces turned on him with slow curiosity. He smiled
wanly back and shrugged as if to say `women'. They all seemed to get it and swiveled back as
one to face on the TV Screen. He reached back for the wallet and counted out the cash,
including the loose change. He had thirty nine pounds, thirty pence and no credit card.
He slugged back the last of his beer and stepped outside into the cold. It hit him like a wall
and he got an instant headache. His nose turned pink and began to dribble. He went straight
back into the pub and headed for the loos. He opened his bag and began pulling out items of
clothing to put on in layers. Two t shirts, a button up shirt, a jumper, a track suit top and his
jacket. Stiff with the layers he waddled out of the loos, no one noticed his Michelin man
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appearance they were still transfixed by the Screen God in the corner.
He plunged into the night air like a swimmer into an icy pool and walked briskly up the high
street, trying to get accustomed to the temperature. Two street sleepers in the doorway of the
chemist were laying out their cardboard for the night. He examined their approach to their
bedding, could he manage that? Why cardboard? He had always wondered. He realised he
was leaning towards them, examining the cardboard with interest, as if observing a peculiar
plant in a garden.
"Spare any change?” One chap said automatically.
"Not tonight," Zach straightened up, "Mind you I was thinking of asking you for a bit of
help."
"Wanker!"
"No," he began to protest but they looked full of hate, not understanding. Of course at that
moment he realised he still appeared the picture of urbane self satisfied comfort. He moved
on until he found another empty doorway and crouched down inside. He didn't even have a
cardboard box. He poked his head out and looked up and down the street, nothing. No
rubbish. It would all be in the big black bins marked paper and cardboard. Damned recycling.
A pungent smell cut through the chill air. He twitched his nose then recognising the scent
jumped up, brushing his coat and rubbing his hands, urine, he shivered. He’d rather walk the
streets all night. There was no hotel he knew of that he could afford. This was ridiculous. No
one he knew actually lived in London, except for Nigel and Jerry. Nigel was stoned out of
this world and Jerry was out. Hopelessly he called Jerry again and left a frantic message.
“Will you pick up your damn phone!” Call me the minute you’re back. This is urgent, really
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completely urgent and I’m bloody freezing to death.”
He huddled against the shop's glass and stuffed his nose beneath his coat. He couldn't believe
it, was he really going to spend the night on the street? There had to be options. Where did
homeless people go if they didn't fancy a cardboard box? He glanced at his watch it was
already eleven o clock. Even if he wanted to get to Bristol or Leicester it was too late. The
phone rang. He grabbed it eagerly, fumbled it with his chilled fingers and dropped it. It
skidded across the shop's porch, he leapt forward and scooped it up, made a silent prayer to
God that it was Jerry, he saw the number, it was. Thank you Zach mimed to the sky. "Jerry,
thank the lord you called I'm in terrible trouble,"
"I know," Jerry's voice lingered on the ‘know’, he sounded almost amused. "I just spoke to
Layla."
"Layla? Why? I called you."
"Yes and I called you back, at home."
"Right, right," Zach felt relieved.
"I spoke to Layla and she's told me you are in disgrace."
“Something like that.”
"Well you had it coming Zach. That woman is a saint and you don't look after her."
"A saint! She's just turfed her husband, the father of her child out onto the street. And do you
know what? She's cut up my credit card! What do you think of that?"
"Her credit card I think you might say. Oh Zach, yes you are in trouble,” he spoke with an
amused relish. “Now I don’t want to be callous or add to your woes but Layla has given me
some very strict instructions.
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“What?” Zach was nervous.
"Well she wants you to survive on your own. To appreciate what it takes to put a roof over
your, well what she calls your, self indulgent head."
“What am I? A spoilt teenager? I know what it takes, a lot more than the thirty nine quid I
have in my wallet."
"Exactly. I'm sorry Zach I cannot help. Come and see me in the gallery about anything
professional but tonight, any night I cannot help you. Strict instructions. Pip pip."
"Pip pip!" Zach screeched. "Do you realise I am in the doorway of a hairdressers at the
moment wearing everything in my bag, it's bedtime and I've absolutely no bloody idea where
I'm going to sleep?"
"Cheerioh Zach, treat this as a big adventure." And the phone went dead.
Zach hunched, his coat clutched round himself, he buried his anger in the deep folds.
"Bastard, bastard!" he repeated ten times. He got up, kicked a stray can and began walking.
He passed happy couples and hated them. He walked fast and aimlessly until he found
himself in a lively Camden street. Suddenly everyone seemed to be the street sleeping type.
Certainly not his type.
A man leaning against a wall held out his hand as he walked by, Zach turned his face to the
floor and pressed on. He walked through the back of the closed market and onto a street with
punks thrilled with their spiky coloured hair, brushing shoulders with biker jackets, and a
huddle of young girls in miniskirts and short jackets, clutching each other for warmth.
Another man, who looked quite smart in a Mac tugged at his arm.
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"I'm awfully sorry to trouble you," he said in a careful polite voice that didn't come naturally.
Zach shook off his hand and ploughed forward. "No really, I am sorry to trouble you,"
"No you're bloody not sorry! You just want some money and I haven't got any!"
"It's me train fare you see..."
"Oh bugger off!" Zach fled. He was beginning to feel really tired now, the cold was
hardening his ears. The worst thing was not seeing an end to the walk. He couldn't just walk
all night. He couldn't go to a friends. He couldn't go home. He couldn't afford a hotel. What
the hell could he do? He turned a corner and there was a van with a small crowd of beggar
types crowding round the open window. He sidled up to it nervously, it was a soup kitchen.
The people looked a mess, more desperate than him. He stood there and more beggars
arrived, each looking more ill and desperate than the next. And they kept on coming, semi
limping, half somnambulant creatures, magnettically drawn to the van, muttering languages
he couldn't recognise, foreign or inarticulate with drink or drugs, it was like a scene from the
living dead. He had to find a way off the street. There must be hostels or something but that
would be where all these people went and he wanted to get far from them. Someone touched
his elbow, he swung round and shouted, "I don't have any bloody money!" He staggered back
and fell into a bush.
"Hey, cool it," said the young man, putting out his hand to Zach and hauling him out of the
privet. The man looked quite clean. Zach pulled up the collar of his coat and brushed his hair
back, trying to regain some dignity. "Sorry," said the man, "I just thought you looked kind of
interested. Wanted to help?" he left the last word as a question.
"Help? Yeah I need help."
"You need help or you want to help?"
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"I need help."
"Ah, well how can I help?"
Zach looked at the fresh eager face on top of the knitted jumper, probably last year’s
Christmas present. "I'm not trying to open a bank account you know. I'm homeless."
"Well that's my speciality!"
"No way," Zach said sarcastically.
"Yeah I just started. I'm with Streetreach, I'm just here to help. Look it's just that you look
new to this too.” He cast his hand over the crowd by way of comparison.
“Well, yes um I am. Then he added circumspectly, "How can you help me?"
"Look I know you've probably undergone some sort of personal trauma," Zach nodded,
"family trauma, I'm guessing," Zach nodded faster. "Well I'm here to help."
"And how are you going to help me?" Zach spoke more slowly.
"Well, I know what it's like. Most homeless people haven't had any positive human contact
for a while, you feel vulnerable, ignored, alone?"
"Yerse,”
"Well I know you're just like me you want someone to spend a bit of time acknowledging
your existence. I know you're a real person."
"Jesus, that's right. I'm a real person. A real homeless person and I need somewhere to go
tonight. I'm not a text book study, I mean, Jesus, how long have you been doing this?" Zach
looked about him impatiently waiting for the keys to the hotel. The chap looked crestfallen.
"All right, it's your first night?" The chap nodded bashfully. "Well it's mine too. I'm not very
good at this either. Everything you said is probably true, but frankly you don't need to tell me
or them."
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"Well what should I say then?"
"I've no bloody idea, but I've got to tell you I'm freezing and if I don't get myself indoors
sometime soon I'm going to pass out with cold and be found dead in the morning. They're
probably all used to it, well I'm not." The chap nodded. "Well how do I know you're
homeless?"
"What you now have to prove you're homeless? What am I going to get that I would want if I
wasn't homeless?"
"What?"
"I mean why should I pretend to be homeless, are you handing out hundred pound notes or
something?"
"Oh no, nothing like that. We've opened a hostel."
"A hostel. That's a hotel with an s, uh?"
"Yes, but I'm afraid the `s' makes all the difference. It's cheap and it's cheerful and it's for the
desperate."
"That's me."
"Follow me then. I'm meant to select one needy individual to council and if necessary help."
"Thank you, I'm glad to be your first subject. Zach Elliot," he held out his hand. "Oh of
course, Paul." Paul smiled tentatively, not sure how such social poise fitted in with his new
duties. Zach also suspected that they both had a feeling he was too good to bring back to the
hostel, no one would be expecting a smart, middle class, non drug using, white male. He
found himself hunching a bit, shoving his neck deeper into his coat collar. Trying to appear a
little more shifty, he traipsed after Paul.
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They walked about a mile, turned off the main street and came to a brightly lit porch in a
nondescript modern block with silver railings for bikes outside. It might be a doctor's surgery
by day. Paul knocked, maybe a secret knock and Zach and he were welcomed by a bossy
looking woman, with dry orange hair and thick glasses. She eyed Zach up and down.
"What's wrong with him then?"
"Nothing," said Paul. "Well he's homeless."
Further down the corridor people shuffled beneath the strip lighting with plastic cups of tea.
They mostly had a common stiffness to their frames, probably due to arthritic joints after
night after night in the cold. Zach felt scared.
“This isn’t a cheap hotel for late night clubbers who’ve missed their train to the provinces you
know!” The woman hissed looking over her shoulder.
A teenage girl who seemed deranged with black hair piled on her head in a giant straw knot
fell out of a doorway. Her fishnets were so torn they wouldn’t have caught a shark. Her
mouth spewed a stream of invective Zach didn’t know had been invented. Another young
woman emerged and with a sense of boredom that Zach thought didn’t match the scary scene,
tried to placate her.
“I am not a clubber.” Zach found himself wrestling to persuade the hostel to let him stay
when all he wanted to do was run away. “I am really homeless.”
At that moment Zach saw another figure shuffle between doors crossing the corridor. He was
wearing a red fleece that Zach recognised. He dug deep, feeling somehow it was a clue to
salvation and bingo he remembered he was the man Adrianne had nonchalantly skipped over
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the other day. Swearing he’d never ignore a homeless person again if things worked out and
he didn’t have to share a roof with these mad people, he rifled through his pocket urgently,
pulling out bits of paper and finally grasped at a torn shred of his best cartridge paper.
Adrianne’s telephone number. He closed his eyes in a silent prayer to anyone, pulled out his
mobile and called her.
************
Adrianne to his astonishment and relief was over excited to see him, bouncing around like a
puppy. "So you've left your wife?" She lifted his bag off his shoulder and drew the coat down
his arms.
"Oh not quite. Not at all!" Zach added alarmed remembering her strange enthusiasm for
Japanese linguists.
"You've left your life then?" Adrianne pulled off the track-suit zip up top and Zach struggled
out of the jumper. She was a diminutive figure and rather swamped by the arm full of clothes.
"Not exactly Adrianne. I just thought I would have a look at this commune of yours. You
might be right," he stretched his arms and rolled his shoulders relieved to be free of the
restricting layers. "Perhaps I should break out of my bourgeois life, live a little, lose some of
the cushions."
"So glad you had this epiphany at midnight. Adrianne gave him an arch look then took his
arm and hauled him through a dark corridor lit by candles. The house was a tall Georgian
terrace in a state of some decrepitude. "Through there is the loo," she pointed out into the
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garden
"Hopefully the beds are inside," Zach craned his neck to look up the dark staircase.
"Of course, but there are not many beds," she turned her pert little smile up to him, “and
there's no central heating of course so we try to keep each other warm."
Zach nodded not knowing at all what he was nodding at. He just noticed she was wearing
nothing but pyjamas; a neat purple set in soft cotton. "If I'd known I was having company I
would have worn something a little different," she fluttered her eyelashes.
She led him up to the first floor, part of which seemed to be the communal sitting room, it
was full of cushions, smoke and candles. The walls were painted a deep red and in the centre
of the room was a low crate painted green which served for a table.
"Everyone is out at their things right now, but it gets quite crowded later on."
Zach looked at his watch and realised he would usually be tucked up in bed with a good
book, let alone later on.
The other part of the first floor was divided into two small bedrooms; one was Adrianne's.
She led him in. It turned out Adrianne was not keeping anyone else warm tonight but her
room was small. She dropped herself onto a mattress on the floor and grinned. Zach stood by
the wall, with barely two foot between him and the mattress. Beside him was a chest of
drawers, a silk shawl edged with heavy tassels was draped over the dark wood. A candle
burned under a glass flask and a scented fragrance hung heavy in the air. At the end of the
room was a window partially covered in ivy from the outside. On the window’s inside was a
colourful sari nailed to the top frame and gathered in a knot pulled to one side.
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"Home," Adrianne said.
"Well thank you, is this, is this my ... your bed?"
"My bed, yes. But what's mine is yours, mea casa es te casa." She leant back on the bed.
"Very hospitable of you," Zach said, realising this situation would not help him get back
home.
Adrianne jumped onto the bed, or rather back into it and curled her feet up beneath her, the
white cotton duvet wrapped round her waist. Zach hovered at the door, there was no further
forward he could go without getting on the bed.
Between him and the end of the room was a large dresser, a small sink then the window.
Between him and the bed was about two feet of worn carpet. He dropped his bag on the floor,
then nudged it with his foot behind the door so it didn't take up half the available space. It
disappeared beneath a swathe of dressing gowns, coats and trailing scarves hanging off door
hooks.
"Well I must confess you are a little late for dinner," Adrianne eyed him coyly, playing with a
silky strand of her red hair.
"Oh don't worry about dinner," he waved a hand, "frankly I'm just keen to go to bed,"
"Really?" Adrianne raised one eyebrow and lent forward slightly.
"Hah! Actually I didn't mean it to sound quite so cavalier!" Zach edged but found himself
backed up against the wall. "I don't wish to intrude, I didn't realise things were so cramped
round here, perhaps I should go?" He offered in a gentlemanly tone. Although he hoped to
goodness there would be some other solution, like another room, because he knew he would
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never make his way back out on the streets. "Go! You have a nubile girl trapped in her
bedroom, in her pyjamas. Oh I know, it's the pyjamas is it?" She made to undo the top button.
"Not really. No it's not the pyjamas.”
He said cautiously. If he didn't get this undeniably tempting situation under control this
temporary change in his life would soon become irrevocable. Did he want that change he
asked himself, his eyes on Adrianne fumbling with her buttons. No. The sooner he sorted
things out with Layla and returned to his fine house, in the fine street and his ever so fine life
then the better. Adrianne without her pyjamas was not going to help that.
“Look, as gorgeous as you are,” Zach began.
Adrianne pouted indicating disappointment at his lack of assistance, “I must assure you, I
have no intention of taking advantage of you, that is unless you want me to?”
"No, no I don't wish to take advantage of you," said Zach firmly, feeling his body was taking
up the whole room. "I'm just following your advice. I need to shake up my life, get a taste of
bohemia. I thought I would join your artistic enclave here, just for a while, take a look." He
sized up the floor space, it was tight, "So where shall I sleep?"
"In here," she patted the bed. Feeling he was losing dignity and any sense of control by
cowering in the corner, he plumped down on the edge of the bed with a casualness he didn't
feel.
He looked at the bed, wondering about top to toe but Adrianne didn't look like she was
thinking top to toe at all. She had leant further forward, a button had definitely been undone
offering a clear view from her throat to her navel. There was no doubt the situation was now
out of control. She was creeping across the bed with slow feline movements, her eyes locked
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on his. She clutched his thigh, slinking up the covers. He unravelled her fingers with a polite
smile, then she swiped at his jeans with her nails and gave him a playful nip, he leapt back to
the far end of the bed, bounced on the mattress, cracked his head on a shelf and collapsed
amongst the crumpled bed clothes. A deep nauseating pain ran through his head. Adrianne
hurried across to administer to his wound. She rubbed it furiously and her breasts jiggled
beneath her top.
Zach groaned. "I didn't realise commune life came with sex." His bottom half about to
submit, his top half restrained by the pain. "It doesn't, you're just lucky."
"I've got a headache," He rubbed his neck, he had heard of people hitting their heads and
breaking their necks. He was beginning to feel sorry for himself again. This was all Layla's
fault.
"Don't be pathetic," Adrianne said lowering her mouth onto his.
Zach thought of the soup kitchen, the dark cold, Adrianne’s lips on his neck and her body
now pressed against his own. This is all Layla’s fault he said, resistance draining away. Her
hand dexterously undid his zip releasing his erection. She removed her night clothes and was
lying on top of him, completely naked, wriggling about enthusiastically. It seemed there was
very little he needed to do. This wasn’t his fault. Suddenly she was sitting across him, he
was inside her and the feeling was so acutely fabulous, he knew without a doubt it was
wrong. He threw up his hands, grabbed her under her armpits and removed her. She let out
an enthusiastic moan.
“Hey, stop, I can’t do this,” but Adrianne reached for him again. “I’m not kidding!” He
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pressed her arms to the bed, restraining her but only increasing her desire, “Yeah baby, yeah,”
she breathed.
“Adrianne,” he held her jaw so she’d look at him. “You’re quite delicious, I mean delightful,”
he quickly corrected himself,” she arched an eyebrow but he shook his head.
“I can’t believe the strength of character I’m showing here, but this is not the time.”
He rubbed the hair off his head. Pressed a finger to Adrianne’s lips to forestall any more
argument. “Let’s do something really Bohemian uh? Let’s sleep.” He rolled over onto his
side, completely exhausted. Adrianne chuckled, “Ooh really bohemian, a sleepover!” She
slipped under the covers. “As you like then. Nighty night.” She wrapped her arms around
him and he slapped her exploring fingers. Eventually she seemed to fall asleep.
A few hours later Zach blinked open his eyes and the whole horrendous reality seeped back to
his consciousness. But he hardly did anything at all, he assured himself. Just popped in for a
few seconds, almost less than a second. The door swung open and the mass of dressing
gowns, towels, jackets and scarves swung to the side.
"Morning!" Adrianne trilled with a wry brightness.
Zach sneezed and sneezed again delivering a fine spray over the back of his hands. Adrianne
turned her face and thrust a box of tissues at him. Embarrassed he took one and repaired his
face.
"I've caught a cold."
"Seems so."
"It's cold in here."
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"Buy me an oil heater then."
Adrianne was brushing her hair, long fast strokes from her crown to the ends. Some hairs
lifted with static and she patted them down with the back of the brush. Zach raised himself up
onto his elbow and took in her smart appearance, she looked very much like she was off to
work.
"You look very much like you're off to work,"
"I am off to work, I need the money until I establish myself."
It hadn't occurred to Zach that she earned a living. In some peculiar way he only related work
and income with Layla. Everyone else in his circle just seemed to mosey along. Or perhaps
they didn't. Perhaps Sean did earn a living and Hal. Now he thought about it he supposed they
had to pay some rent and buy food.
"What do you do?"
"Do? Do you mean where am I off to right now? I assist an artist, creative guy," she twisted
round, she had her hair held up so she could brush underneath.
"Hmm," Zach was staring at her suit.
"It's temporary," Adrianne hastened to add, feeling judged. "To which end when can I meet
your agent?" she asked, briskly tying an orange chiffon scarf round her neck.
"Agent?"
"Your agent, Jerry Farr. Remember I need to meet him?"
"Jerry?" Zach shifted on the bed, leaving Sean and Hal and the mysteries of employment
behind, "Jerry, well we'll set something up."
"Good, I can do tomorrow anytime."
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"Right." Zach tried to remember what her art was like and looked round her room for a clue.
Then he realised in the half-light that the wall was covered in pieces of white paper each with
a tiny dot on it. Not necessarily in the centre, and possibly of different colours although they
all appeared black to him.
"Insignificance, portraits of insignificance. Who are we? Nothing," Adrianne offered,
"remember?"
"Sounds awfully depressing," Zach said without thinking and truly feeling it.
"Not at all. Haven't you read Camus? Satre? Look at this one." She clambered over the
clothes spilling out of his bag. He watched Mrs C's ironing go the way of the rest of his life.
Adrianne was pointing to another picture which was nearly all dark except for a corner, "and
this one," she slapped her hand on another inked in patch on the wall. "Our lives are
insignificant. Nothing. But we're here. We have to kick back and live it. Make the most of it.
See everything, be aware of the present. We are this small," she pointed to the small dot, "but
we must make our lives this big, " she pointed to the large splotch.
Zach was actually feeling a like the small dot. She had a point, or Satre had a point. But the
words ‘was it art’ drifted through his mind.
"Well I live for my art, but I can't live on it yet.”
No, Zach decided, not art, the pretentious manifestations of a deluded art student, or was it
philosophy?
She tossed the trailing end of the scarf over one shoulder. "I'm off to work. See you later," she
bent down and gave him a kiss as if they'd been together forever. Zach closed his eyes
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reminding himself this wasn't his fault. "You'll meet the rest of the inmates this morning.
You'll find them in the kitchen. Ta ra," she pulled the door and the mass of clothes swung
then fell on his lap.
Ta ra, he mimed, pushed the clothes onto the floor and flopped onto his back. Oh my God!
He mouthed silently and pressed the heel of his hands into his eyes. Desperate for a pee he
was forced to get up and dress. He could see the loo from the bedroom window across the
courtyard. He looked at the sky, dark and chilly, the bare bushes shivered in a gust of north
wind that had managed to creep over the flinty grey wall. Then he turned to the sink put the
taps on full and peed there, making mental apologies to his hostess.
He sat back on the bed wondering what to do next. If it had been in his normal life what
would happen next? He had completely lost his bearings. Instead of a long luxurious power
shower he'd had a pee in a sink. What happened after the power shower? Then he
remembered breakfast. Feeling a bit scared of who he might meet he braved the stairs. He
hated the feeling, he was usually king of the castle and now here he was a mere knave,
possibly less.
Zach paused by the kitchen door. He could hear voices; two maybe three people. As he
entered all talk ceased and four faces turned to him.
"Good morning," he waved a hand generally. "Zach Elliot. Friend of Adrianne's," he added.
"Hi," said the only female in the room. She was stocky, not fat but muscular. She was
wearing a short sleeved shirt, which proudly accentuated some particularly strong and
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unladylike arms. "I'm Sasha," she spoke in a deliberate deep and businesslike voice,
apparently to make a serious impression; rather incongruous Zach thought in their seriously
messy kitchen. He eyed the cracked linoleum, peeling wallpaper and shelves of rubbish.
There was a silent pause, then Zach leant forward and shook the proffered hand, which fairly
crushed his.
"Bin, Claude and Brown," she introduced the other occupants of the room who variously
shifted a bit. Bin touched his head in a sort of salute revealing one obviously missing finger.
Claude took a drag on a cigarette and squinted behind the smoke screen and Brown gave him
a keen grin from beneath a mop of ginger hair, which merged with his freckles into an orange
smudge.
"All right?" Brown said and tapped his forehead in a casual salute.
Claude rolled his eyes, presumably at Brown's middle class eagerness.
"Do yer want some breakfast or something?" Brown continued in a strong Glaswegian accent.
He indicated various packets of sweet cereal on the table. As Zach moved towards the table
cereal crackled under foot and there was a tacky resistance in his steps. Brown tipped his seat
and leant towards the formica counter, he selected a bowl which was nearly clean and handed
it to Zach.
"Spoons are probably in the sink," he pointed to the corner of the room and a large butler's
sink with really brown stains on the old white porcelain. A wooden draining board that
looked dark and soggy was piled high with dented aluminium pots and an assortment of
variously patterned dishes.
Zach approached the sink, bracing his stomach, rightly so. It didn't look good at all. Mrs C
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would have a fit. Feeling his appetite run out the door but not wishing to offend he fished out
a spoon and rinsed it under a tap for quite a while then began washing it with detergent. He
realised he was being rather obviously thorough, he glanced back with an apologetic twist on
his mouth but the others hadn't noticed. They had resumed a discussion on some claim, a
court case.
"So on what basis did they turn it down?"
"Unsubstantiated amount," Bin slowly repeated the unfamiliar word. He was large, very
large in fact but not at all used to large words. He reminded Zach of a Nubian tribesman he
had once painted. Perhaps Bin was Nubian. He'd ask him some time.
"Bin is making a claim for loss of earnings," Sasha advised Zach, "it's not going well."
"Not very well at all," said Claude in a dead pan way, which implied he was sick to death of
hearing about Bin's tribulations. He was slim and his face was framed in dreadlocks that
rested on his shoulders. He spoke with a French accent; Zach tried to guess which country he
came from, Guadeloupe?
“Are you a solicitor?” Claude asked and from the curl of his lip he considered the suggestion
offensive.
"No I know nothing much about law. Actually I'm an artist," Zach said.
"We're all artists," snapped Sasha.
"Yes, so I heard" Zach looked at the cereals, then he looked up at his expectant audience. He
cast about for something to comment upon and came to the uncomfortable realisation that
what he had thought were shelves cluttered with rubbish was actually something stuck on the
wall above the shelves, in fact the product of someone's artistic endeavours.
"Bin's work," said Sasha eyeing him closely. "Bloody original isn't it?"
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Zach peered carefully at the constructions, there was no arguing with that assessment. Who
else would have thought of it? They were rubbish, literally rubbish. Old cans and cereal
packs, empty crushed plastic bottles, scraps of paper all glued together. Each one had a
common centrepiece, something solid, he stood up to examine it.
"It's meant to draw you in," said Bin timidly repeating someone else's phrase.
"Oh yes, indeed," said Zach as he identified the solid piece as a broken bottle.
Each construction was centred around a broken bottle. A chair screeched behind him, the
interruption saved Zach from the further comment he was struggling to offer. Sasha was
stuffing cigarettes and paraphernalia into a backpack.
"I've a site meeting in EC2," she announced all busy professional while checking her watch.
She walked out of the door with a rolling gate, rather like a toughie lad set on leaving an
impression in his wake. Zach tried to guess what the site meeting was about. She'd said she
was an artist so concluded she must be into some major installation. Well that was pretty
good, he could never have achieved support for a `big' idea.
Zach poured some cereal into his bowl. Brown pushed a litre of milk over. Zach instinctively
sniffed it. He inspected the cereal for life before dousing it in the milk. He took a spoon full
and smiled over the china rim at the housemates who were staring at him.
"You zink we eat sour milk?" Claude curled his lip.
The door slammed and the house gave a shudder.
"Another one off to work," Zach remarked ignoring the confrontation.
"Sasha is a painter," said Brown equally keen to diffuse Claude's temper.
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Zach raised his eyebrows to show a little pleasant surprise, he was wrong about the
installation piece.
"All artists, as you said. What's your field, Brown?" The pale faced Glaswegian wore black
leather trousers and jacket, he looked like a motorbike courier. He wasn't wearing boots
though, nice touch, considerate of the carpets. Zach noticed the soles of his thick woolly
socks were so caked in dirt they'd turned shiny.
"I’m inter sepia prints, which is why they call me Brown, for it no be the colour of me skin!”
"Course not," Zach made a small laugh, Brown laughed back, warmly enough. "Any of your
prints here?"
"Aye. They're all over the corridor walls, take a wee look on your way up."
"I'm sorry I didn’t notice them, I'm just finding my way about. Quite a labyrinth."
"Yeah, fully capacious. Made for a commune," said Brown, picking at his teeth with a
splinter he seemed to have lifted from the chair seat. "Woodnae know what one family could
do with all the space."
I know, thought Zach. It probably wasn't any bigger than his house which seemed to have
similar architecture. He counted up the likely rooms and guessed there might be one spare in
spite of what Adrianne said.
"Loads of rooms are there? Any more people here?"
"Nah, just us."
Zach decided a little exploration later might be useful. He wondered if he had been tricked
into that girl's bed. He felt taken advantage of, if a man could feel such under the
circumstances.
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Claude lifted his booted feet and crossed them on the chair right next to Zach. Zach looked at
the filthy heavy soles inches from his cereal bowl.
“What do you do then?” he asked trying to be friendly.
Abruptly Claude leapt up from the table and kicked his chair making Zach jump and spill
milk on his chest. Claude was not strongly built but he made quite an impression just with his
very angry face. He stomped to the door, then turned on Zach, "Why does everyone need a
bloody label in this world? Fucking suburbanite!" His thumping footsteps reverberated up the
stairs.
Zach paused with the spoon by his chin and looked sideways at Brown who shrugged. "Well,
another time,” Zach said hopelessly. He imagined this was what it would be like when Kit
was a teenager.
There followed a protracted silence except for the crunching of bran flakes in Zach's mouth
whilst Brown read a two day old newspaper and Bin stared at his lap. Finally Bin decided that
he could leave the room which he had obviously been desperate to do since Claude had
departed. Sociability was not the big man's strong point Zach guessed.
Brown got up too. "I'm off to the lab. Have a gawp about, make yerself at home, that's if ye're
staying. Nay mind Claude, he likes to play the troubled soul."
Zach poured the residual sweet milk into his mouth but was careful not to make contact with
the china rim. He took the bowl over to the sink and put it on top of the other dishes. Then he
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looked back at the table where the previous company had all left their bowls, their toast
crumbed plates and marmaladey knives. He doubted they had a Mrs C. He cast about for
something to wipe the table down and spotted a cloth but it had an ominously rancid smell.
He was about to pick it up and rinse it when something instinctive stopped his hand. This was
a host for so much listeria it could make its own physical attack. Moving back in case the
cloth launched itself he quickly followed the others and left the kitchen, closing the door on
the mess.
He went in search of the bathroom, bracing himself. The corridor had no carpet, the
floorboards were paint splattered and ill fitting, the walls beneath the rail were scratched
furiously from bike handles although the higher walls were draped in various painted
materials, which were a colourful addition by someone, though long ago judging by the dust
in the folds. The bathroom was on the ground floor, by the stairs. He pushed open the door
with one finger and peered inside. Mouldy shower curtain, stained bath, damp towels and a
small pile of trimmed hair on the sink, possibly pubic. He reversed. He went to the end of the
corridor and out into the garden. He scurried across the cold court to the loo. Inside there was
no light and plenty of draft in fact it was icy. There was one positive to the low temperature;
whatever the anatomical construct of an odour it had surely been frozen out of motion so the
loo probably didn't smell half as bad as it looked. He also imagined the odour couldn't
envelop him in quite the same way, otherwise imagining disgusting odour atoms settling on
his clothes. Nonetheless this was not comfort enough. Zach felt his buttocks clench and
something seize up in his stomach. He tried to turn his back on the loo with the intention of
taking a seat but he just couldn't manage it. If creatures ever drifted up from the bowels of
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toilet bowls this was where they would arrive. Zach peed from as great a distance as he could
manage and fled. He slammed shut the glass door watching his breath form steamy shadows
and rubbed his hands. An involuntary shiver ran down his back. "Yuk! Yuk! Yuk!" he said
and scuttled upstairs.
On the first landing he glanced at the walls and suddenly remembered Brown's sepia prints.
There they were, a plentiful collection, pasted so close together they looked rather like brown
wallpaper. People in ultra modern fashion and provocative poses, sullen and pouty and all
printed in period sepia. It was unexpected. He quite liked them. He peered up the stairs where
he heard footsteps, perhaps Brown's but possibly Claude's. He was quite nervous of bumping
into the unpredictable Claude. He walked into the sitting room; in the daylight he noticed that
there was another door besides the one into Adrianne's room. He stood in the middle of the
room and listened, he couldn't hear anyone so he pushed the door open a fraction. There was
a room behind it, a small room. He stepped forward, opening the door properly and found a
single bed heaped with sheets and a worn bedspread. The walls were painted a deep red.
Various ashtrays littered the shelves and floor, too late Zach's mind made the connection.
Suddenly the covers sprung off the bed; a manic swamp of grey cloth with a livid black face
dashed at him, knocked him back out the room and slammed the door onto his nose.
"Fucking thief!" yelled Claude.
Zach reeled dabbing his nose with his hand and wiping tears out of his smarting eyes.
"Psychopath," he muttered to the door and staggered back to Adrianne's room. He shut
himself in and sat on the bed. He trampled carelessly over her dressing gown and coats that
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had fallen off their hook. No home, no studio, no money; surrounded by maniacs and killer
cloths. He slumped his head into his hands and stared at his trainers buried in Adrianne's
clothes. After a while he collected the clothes and re hung them on the door, dusting off his
careless footprints.
A bookshelf ran round the walls above her bed, the one he had cracked his skull on the night
before. Removing his shoes he stood on the bed and selected himself a book. He settled for a
George Elliot novel, so much for Adrianne's radical mind. He clambered into the bed for a
long read. If he didn’t read he would be forced to consider his situation and as that seemed all
too depressing, he read.
Hours slipped by, he had almost finished Middlemarch when Adrianne appeared at the door
and flicked on the top light. He looked at his watch it was five thirty and he hadn't noticed the
gathering gloom round the small bedside light.
"Hello, have a fun day?" she trilled.
Zach mumbled something and swung his feet off the bed. "Did you meet the gang? Quite a
bunch of characters aren't they."
"Definitely," said Zach.
"We all have dinner together when we're around, usually quite early."
"Look forward to that," Zach stood up wondering where he should go or alternatively where
Adrianne should go. She solved that by jumping onto the bed and landing on her bum with
her legs straight out front. She patted the bed. Zach returned to his seat.
"So," she simpered, leaning sideways and letting a curtain of hair fall in his lap. "Any news?"
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"Oh nothing special,"
Adrianne sat up looking irritated. "Will Jerry see me?"
Zach had forgotten all about Adrianne's burgeoning career as an artist.
"Yes, I'm sure he will." Her expression was half eager, half warning him to disappoint her.
"We'll pop in soon. Not a problem," he said keenly.
Adrianne examined Zach wondering if that was a reliable promise.
“I’m amazed it’s so late,” he looked at his watch without even registering the time, “Got
rather stuck into that book.” Adrianne bent one leg and folded the other across it, her foot
dangling a shoe from her toe, her eyes full of enticement.
“I’m going for a walk,” Zach said quickly, “Give you time to rein in your nymphomaniac
alter ego.” He patted her knee, “back shortly.”
Adrianne rolled onto her front, taking up the place Zach had been sitting in. “See you at
dinner,” she blew him a kiss.
Zach watched the kiss sail through the air, flicked her a wink and slipped out the door.
Outside it was already dark. It must have rained at some point; the wet streets looked slick
bathed in the orange glow of the street lamps. He breathed the cool air, and pushed a pile of
soggy blossom with his boot. Then stuck his hands in his pockets and marched away from the
house. Glancing back over his shoulder, he saw lights on in the ground floor kitchen but the
rest of the house was set in a grim darkness, bar a slight glow that came from the corridor. It
had an awful derelict look. And when he thought of the inhabitants, they had a rather derelict
feel, except Adrianne, she was from a different stratosphere to the others. As for himself he
felt precariously near the wrong end of the camp.
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He decided to call home. He reached for his mobile but realised he'd left in such a hurry he
hadn't put his jacket on. He found a phone booth and some coins in his jeans. He dialed the
number. He wanted Kit to answer the phone; he didn't know what to say to Layla. He
murmured to himself `Kit answer, Kit answer', Layla answered. His heart made an
involuntary jump. He swallowed, giving her time to repeat an impatient hello, then he quickly
responded so she didn't think it was a strange heavy breather. But as soon as he announced
himself she said "hold on, I assume you want to talk to your son." There was a knocking
sound, the phone dangling against the wall he imagined, that was as close as he could get to
his home. His disembodied voice could wander the kitchen. "Helloo cupboard, hi kettle," he
said just to put his voice in the room.
"Hi Dad,"
"Oh Kit, hello Kit old chap." Zach realised he had never actually rung his son up before.
"Are you having a good trip Dad?"
"Huh? Oh trip." Is that what his son thought he was doing, a trip? A business trip, what sort of
trip? But he just said yup. "And how you doing?"
"We're having fondue tonight. It's great, it's Swiss." Zach instantly realised how much he
missed this childish enthusiasm.
"I know what a fondue is. Actually they do a great chocolate fondue, you stick….”
“Mum found the fondue set in the basement it’s so cool!”
“Yeah, smart," then the pips went. Zach was amazed fifty pence gave him about twenty
seconds, BT were charging him about 10 pence a second to speak to his son. He was
suddenly angry at BT. He looked for some coins then stopped, he wasn't sure what more there
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was to say on the phone, anyway it was BTs fault, they'd ruined his train of thought.
"Look Kit, I'll stay in touch. Hope you're all having fun, lots of love," the call ended.
He replaced the receiver and looked through the glass. A woman with a child in a pram
waited outside the booth. He tapped the window with the coin he hadn't put in, then pushed
open the door, holding it for the lady. She went in and wedged the door open with the kid and
the pram.
Zach wandered down the street, distracted with his thoughts. How long would he be out of his
home? He realised this was not an overnight situation. Would it be a week? Perhaps by then
Layla would have cooled off, surely she'd miss him. Then he couldn't help saying that out
loud to reassure himself, "Surely she'd miss him?" But out loud it sounded even less probable.
He turned his thoughts to accommodation. How long could he stay with Adrianne? He had no
idea. Even if he were welcome, which he most obviously was, at least from Adrianne's point
of view, how long could he fend her off without offence? And an offended Adrianne sounded
difficult. He was in a predicament he imagined only girls found themselves in. He'd never
heard of a man being harassed by a rapacious female, certainly not one of equivalent
attractions to Adrianne. He needed to find a spare room.
His second problem was money. That was a bigger problem. He had been thrust out into the
big wide world like some Jack in a fairytale, to discover the true value of money. Well he'd
found out the true value, it was indispensable and he wanted some. Goodness he'd tried hadn't
he? He had painted hundreds of pictures over the years. No one would buy the damn things;
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hijacked by the media into thinking unrecognisable tosh was art.
He crossed the road and headed towards an off license. He had no idea what dinner consisted
of; red or white was academic, more like Spanish or Bulgarian. It would probably be some
concoction of beans, it being a ‘commune’. Alcohol would help make it palatable. It would
certainly help make it more hygienic. In the end given the contents of his wallet he opted for
lager. Armed with a six pack and less than £30 pounds he walked back.
He was passing a house fronted with a low wall and a burgeoning privet hedge when he heard
a light mewling. The mewl was so miserable he stopped and looked under the hedge. In the
darkness he found nothing but dried leaves. The plaintive sound continued; increasingly
desperate. He pulled the hedge apart and thrust his head in, there was definitely something
rustling in amongst the drier twigs. Then he saw it, a small skinny greyish white kitten. It
mewled at him again, bearing tiny teeth in an emaciated face. He pushed his hand through the
hedge and wrapped his fingers round the creature's fragile rib cage. Mew, mew it continued,
frail and light in his hand. "Hey little fellow, are you hungry?"
"Mew,"
"Ah, me too."
"Where's your home?"
"Mew,"
"Haven't got one? Me neither. How about you come back with me? I think there's room for
anything in this house," Zach picked up his six pack and peered into the two large eyes stuck
onto the grey bony head. He tucked the kitten into the crook of his arm and continued down
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the road. "They've probably got mice, you could be pretty busy. If you find a rat though, run.
You don't stand a chance in this scrawny outfit. Wait till we've fed you up a bit."
Zach rang on the bell and was greeted by Adrianne now dressed in bright green velvet
trousers and a long red top. It struck Zach that she modelled herself on some sort of
Christmas elf just a little more chic.
"Present," said Zach holding out the kitten. "Found him in the street and thought I know
someone who takes in strays."
"Oooh," she sounded not unlike the kitten. She held the fluffy scrap to her face, gave Zach a
gooey smile and pressed her nose against the kitten's nose.
When they entered the kitchen the creature immediately broke the ice with Bin and Sasha.
Claude was seated in a corner, his back to the wall, prepared for attack. Zach gently touched
the kitten in Adrianne's arms, emphasizing his proximity to the frail creature should Claude
try anything aggressive.
The kitten was placed on the table and a saucer of milk was set before it. The breakfast things
had been cleared. There they were on top of a precarious tower in the sink. The cereal was
back on the Formica shelf, what cereal that wasn't on the floor. Mercifully he noticed the
table hadn't been wiped and the `host' cloth hadn't been moved.
Zach sat in a chair and dropped the six pack in front of him. "Who would like a drink?" He
pulled a can out of the plastic collar and handed it to Bin who took it in his giant paw.
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Everyone leant forward and helped themselves except Claude. Purposefully Zach pulled one
out for him and pushed it into his hand. Claude just stared at him, then opened the can and
sipped, as if he was doing Zach a favour by not responding with violence.
Bin placed a small knob of butter on the corner of the milk dish.
"Hmm he likes that," said Adrianne.
"Looks starving, poor bugger," said Sasha. "Some cruel bastards out there just abandoned
him."
"I know how he feels," said Bin gloomily.
Zach swigged his beer. He cast his eyes over to the cooker and saw a pot of red stew bubbling
away. He craned his neck to identify the contents. Beans. "Dinner looks good, who's the
cook?"
"Claude," said Bin.
"Eh bien sur," said Zach earning himself a bored and sarcastic circle of the eyes from Claude,
over the rim of his beer can.
"Claude cooks something most nights, I do the shopping for him," said Sasha, glancing up
briefly from her attentions to the kitten.
"The rest of us contribute to the expenses," said Brown informatively.
"We all make a contribution," Sasha looked at Zach again, this time more pointedly.
"Oh, right of course, I'd like to make a contribution too. How much do you usually
contribute?”
£15 a week for food, £10 a week for the bills."
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"Well count me in if that's okay? For the week." Zach pulled out his wallet and placed £25
on the table, acutely aware of what remained. "And, who does the washing up?" He didn't
know why he asked this because it was obvious no one did the washing up and he really
hadn't wanted to bring the subject up. Mentioning washing up showed he was aware of it,
now he had to do it. If he didn't wash up then it would be seen as an active refusal, unlike the
others who could at least pretend they hadn't noticed it. And sure enough Sasha said, “You do
what you want. If it bothers you, which it obviously does, then do it. You can’t live with
something that annoys you.” She tipped her beer can at her lips, her eyes defiant. “Can
you?”
"But nay one actually likes to wash up," said Brown with cheerful honesty, "that's the great
thing about a commune, you only do what yer want to do. So we don't wash up really."
"Washing up eez a waste of my life," Claude chipped in.
“But not somebody else’s if they’re prepared to do it,” Zach observed wittily but when he
saw Claude’s smoldering features his smile fizzled out and shrugged as if innocent of any
opinion and concentrated on the kitten.
Throughout dinner Claude, intentionally or otherwise, blew smoke into his face. He actually
managed to eat and smoke at the same time. Zach turned his attentions to Bin who was soon
spilling out his personal history. He had been a dustbin man but some inconsiderate
household had thrown away a broken bottle and not wrapped it in newspaper. He had slashed
his fingers on the glass and they had become infected, subsequently one had to be
amputated." He pointed to the top joint of his middle finger on his left hand, above which
would have been the now absent piece of finger. Since then he had been fighting for loss of
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earnings and at the same time expiating his trauma in his art.
"Van Gogh lost an ear but at least he still had the tools of his craft," Bin explained as if he
was repeating a mantra drummed into him by others.
"But losing a finger, well a bit of a finger, wouldn't stop you from your work
really?" Zach said and Bin looked confused. "I mean you can still lift can't you?"
"Lift?" Bin repeated.
“Bins?”
“He can’t paint!” Sasha chipped in exasperated. “Well it’s difficult to hold a brush.”
“Oh, you were earning money painting?" Zach maintained a naive voice underneath feeling
irritably sarcastic.
"Well no, but I would have been painting," Bin stammered.
“What if you had not been a dustbin man?”
Sasha heaved a deep sigh, which said to Zach middle class selfish fool, not ready to shoulder
the burden of those that are less able and all the rest of it.
'Bla bla bla' silently fell off his lips.
"What didya say?" Sasha snapped.
"Oh, er nothing," this was ridiculous, like school, thought Zach.
He watched Bin attack his beans, wielding a fork with unimpeded efficiency. Zach shoved a
spoon of bean stew into his mouth avoiding further comment on the suggested parallels
between Bin and Van Gogh. As he swallowed the beans he considered the likely
repercussions and the inevitable necessity of visiting the horrifying outside loo. If he could
hold on till tomorrow perhaps he could go to a cafe or something, even a public loo would be
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better. His stomach cramped slightly, he sat still for a moment and then his stomach relaxed.
He continued eating, carefully.
After dinner they all trooped upstairs to the sitting room leaving plates, beer cans and the stew
pot on the table. Zach was at the door, following them but he stopped. He just couldn't ignore
the state of the kitchen, knowing full well Mrs C was not coming to wash up. The last time
he'd seen anything quite like the mess was after one of Kit's toddler parties from which Zach
had quickly escaped by driving a parent and kid home. He only returned when he was sure
things were repaired, which involved sitting in his parked car listening to a repeat of
gardener's question time for about an hour, followed by a lie to Layla complaining about
garrulous mum beleaguering him about her son's magnificent brain. He wanted to go and sit
in his car now listening to a repeat of gardener’s question time, the same one again if need be.
He returned to the kitchen table scooping up plates and cutlery and tried to tip them into the
sink, but it was now impossibly full. Only half would go in. The other half he returned in a
neat pile to the end of the table.
"Oh Christ," he muttered. Zach was used to a clean orderly house and this was so repulsive.
He picked out his own plate and cutlery and washed that, but there was no room on the
draining board to dry it. He dropped it back into the sink. With a long wooden spoon he lifted
the scary cloth and tipped it into the bin.
He cast his eyes up to the ceiling to the murmur of smoky discussion drifting down through
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the boards. Then he rolled up his sleeves and got stuck into the job. Someone in his house had
been doing this. He marvelled at how immaculate the kitchen had always been. “Believe
me!” He raised his voice shouting up at the ceiling, “this is a worthwhile job!”
And what's more, he said to himself, if this is an equal society after this I've earned my own
damn bedroom.
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CHAPTER SEVEN
Life without Zach was going to be most pleasant as far as Layla was concerned. She had Mrs
C come in to prepare a wholesome dinner and generally bustle about making a homely
atmosphere for Kit until she got back. Layla was being looked after which was a novel
feeling and she was relaxed. It wasn't just the extra help but the absence of the tension. With
Zach around, tension would build up, not because of the effort she made but because she had
to watch him go about his life completely oblivious to her efforts.
The most wonderful change in her life though was between her and Kit. Now that she didn't
have to rush in to prepare dinner and deal with the demands of running Zach's home, she had
time to relax with her son, just chatting. He was much better at it than Zach. In fact Kit had
assumed many routine responsibilities around the house that Zach might have taken on if
inclined. He laid the table for breakfast, even cleared some things away. In fact so satisfied
was she with this new pace of life letting Zach back in seemed an increasingly distant
possibility. She wondered if he had finally come to realise what an effort it was to survive in
the city let alone live the comfortable life to which he had accustomed himself. Perhaps she
might if he finally understood that this financial net didn’t just drop in their laps; she worked
very very hard for every penny of their comfort.
One morning the post clattered through the letterbox and Kit sifted it into piles. He put his
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father's letters in a drawer in the hall, junk mail he happily consigned to the bin with a feeling
of adult power, and the remainder he handed to his mother. The top one looked interesting; he
pointed out a bright green envelope and read the printed address on the back. "From The
Bank."
"The bank or The Bank?"
"The Bank, the art thingy,"
"Hmm interesting," Layla turned the envelope over, it was definitely addressed to her and it
was from The Bank. "Probably asking me why I failed to submit my entry, my reputation is
so great," she joked tearing open the envelope. Kit watched her read the letter, she gave a
short laugh then she looked bewildered.
"What is it Mum?"
"I don't understand," she flicked the paper straight and re read it. "I've won. But I can't have
won."
"Won what?"
"My submission, whatever submission they think I've submitted has been judged and has won
the second prize! It will be exhibited, and for sale, when the exhibition opens on Thursday.
In the evening there will be a prize giving and cocktails for all successful entrants. Dress
glamorous," she said vaguely, completely perplexed by the turn of events. "That's what it
says," she handed the letter to Kit for him to verify. Kit sat down and methodically read
through the green note.
“It says you can take someone. Will you take Dad?" Kit asked with an unfelt innocence. He
had quickly come to terms with his father's disgrace, he understood punishment. He was
usually sent out of the room for something bad, so it seemed perfectly reasonable that an adult
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should be sent out of the house. He didn't think his father would be invited to accompany her
and Kit really liked the look of the green invitation.
"I don't think I will. This is the last invitation he deserves. But God Kit I really have no idea
what I am being awarded for."
"Well I don’t suppose we can ring them up and ask. Go and find out." Layla looked at her son
thoughtfully, you couldn't argue with that advice. "Yes, you're right."
"And who are you going with?" He twisted his face under hers and put on his most winning
smile.
"How do you fancy a glamorous night out?"
“Yeah!”
"You want to come?"
"Definitely!"
"It's a date then, Thursday."
******
With careful thought she selected a purple nail varnish and enjoyed coating her nails in the
thick gloss. The colour suited her dark hair and olive skin.
Her fingers seemed aware of their new glamour and flitted about in elegant gestures.
Feeling like she was embarking on some sort of metamorphosis she applied a face pack and
in the shower she exfoliated every part of her body that might reasonably be exfoliated.
When Kit sashayed into her room wearing what her uncle might have termed a shirt that was
a bit ‘sudden’, she asked him if he really wanted to go with the Hawaiian look.
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"Mum, this is the contemporary art scene,” the words stretched with impatience. “Ollie's
mother says we have to dress funky. I am not going in my school blazer."
"No, you're right," Layla hesitated over the black dress she was about to put on. Glamorous,
she said to herself looking through her wardrobe. Kit was tying one of her silk scarves round
his head and making pirate noises, "Think Tracey Emin glamorous," she mumbled. She
pulled out a pair of black jeans, then a vermillion shirt that was slashed at the back and finally
a pair of preposterously pointed shoes with laces that tied round her ankles. Then she tore the
scarf off Kit's head and tied it round her own.
"That works," Kit said throwing himself on her bed in a star shape.
Layla painted her lips a deep plum and put a large moon of dark shadow on her eyes and
thick mascara. The final effect was fairly arty. She had transformed herself and that was no
doubt for the good. This was not likely to be an evening repeated given that their whole
presence was some bizarre mistake, so she had better make the most of it. That very point,
‘the mistake’, jumped about in her mind and made her agitated. Perhaps after all she should
have rung to discuss the error. Maybe she had made an even bigger mistake accepting the
invite. Should she really have followed the advice of her ten year old son?
The front of The Bank building was lit up with green strobes and the door was a sheet of
green light; this was actually a Patrice Lane exhibit called `The Green House'. There were
quite a few people jumping out of cars and filing through the door, admiring their green hue
for a moment on the threshold. An air of light headed energy filtered out onto the street.
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Passers by stopped to watch the commotion in case someone famous or remotely famous was
about to appear.
Layla held Kit's arm under hers and they strode confidently through the green door. The
corridor in front of them was the usual white walls with grey concrete floor. It reminded her
of the walk through Santa's grotto at Kit's primary school. Indeed she had the same feelings of
excited anticipation she suspected the kids experienced just before they came upon Santa and
she was indeed going have her own little surprise and that’s wasn’t just the prize.
They emerged into a cavernous room also painted a stark white, full of people holding
various coloured drinks in tall glasses with baseless stems. Not that there was anywhere to
rest a glass. The few surfaces available were allocated to art works. A man proffered a tray of
wine; his head was at a level with a large mound of black curly hair, unmistakably a pubis, it
was called `The Triangle of Life,
"Thank you," said Layla taking a glass whilst eyeing the giant anatomical representation.
"What's that?" asked Kit.
Layla glanced at the waiter who smirked without any condescension, she returned an amused
smile. "Oh something..." she muttered, moving on. “Let's find my award winning entry." She
grabbed the collar of his Hawaiian shirt.
The top five exhibits were all at the far end of the room. Layla and Kit headed directly there,
dying to recognise the piece.
"I think I know what's happened," she said hesitantly, preparing her son for this horrible
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reality.
"What?"
"I have an awful suspicion your father has entered one of his own works,"
"Why would he do that?"
"Perhaps because he's spent so much time denigrating such exhibitions he didn't feel he could
openly participate. Maybe this is some convoluted scheme to finally break in. He's welcome
to the accolade; it might actually be the making of him."
"But why didn't he own up?"
"That's beyond me. Well no, possibly embarrassed? Here we are." They had reached the far
end of the room and in front of them was a model of a black sheep with its head sticking out
of its stomach. The title was in Russian and helpfully translated beneath as `Black Sheep of
the Family'.
"Strange sheep in Russia," Kit observed innocently.
"Who knows? Some reference to Chernobyl perhaps. A political point?" Layla strained her
neck examining quickly all the other exhibits trying to recognise something from the studio.
"See anything familiar?" she said to Kit but he wasn't next to her. He was already in the far
corner looking at something on the wall. She caught him up and peered over his shoulder.
Immediately she dashed her hand to her mouth and let out a short yelp. Then she burst out
laughing.
"My homework!" he bleated.
Next to a label announcing second prize in The Bank contemporary art show was Kit's
shadow project. There was the triangular board; its feet pasted to the flat base which was all
set in a picture frame hung on the wall. "How wonderfully imaginative of Mrs C. I love the
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way the white mount holds the board base, leaves the triangle proud, and good choice of
frame Mrs C, plain thick black. Adds to it don't you think?"
"Ladies and Gentleman please assemble to congratulate our winners!" an improbably skinny
man in what appeared to be a figure skaters black trouser suit minced up to the front of the
room. Layla and Kit fell back melting into the congregating audience.
"How did my homework get here?" Kit still wanted to know.
"How did it win second prize more to the point!"
"I had to do that twice and I was in serious trouble with Mr Bellows."
"Kit, really that is the least of our worries," she hissed. "What on earth am I going to say!"
"Tell them I want my homework back!"
"Sure I'll just tell them they've awarded a kid second prize in one of London's most
prestigious contemporary art competitions."
A hand cupped her elbow and a pair of podgy lips stuck to her cheek, "Hello my lady love."
Layla stepped back fixing a smile on her face as she turned to see who had accosted her, "Oh
Jerry, it's you!"
"Bien sur, I trust your husband is still in disgrace?" Layla laughed. “And so you get the
invite?” he grinned at Kit.
"Jerry thank the Lord you're here." She was relieved to find a familiar face, she was doubting
the wisdom of their being there at all. “I had no idea you attended these things, I thought you
were above it all."
"I'm never above anything in this circus. But what are you two doing here?"
"I, we, are in the most ridiculous situation," she spoke sotto voce.
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"Indeed?" Jerry reduced his voice to a similar level.
"Have you seen the winners' exhibits?"
"Just come up to peer at them."
"Well I've won something. That's why I am here."
"Really?" Jerry's eyes rounded but his smile was genuine pleasure.
"Well not strictly me," she clasped her arms round his shoulders and whispered straight in his
ear. Jerry's mouth pursed and made a big oh then ah. The organiser was drawing people
nearer to begin his speech, Layla's face screwed up with apprehension.
"Which one is it?"
Layla pointed to the shadow experiment. Jerry nodded and then looked at the other exhibits
surrounding shadow.
"Well I'm sure it's a worthy winner."
"Jerry! This is your business."
"Yes and I know it well."
She lowered her voice again. “So should I go and collect the award or should Kit? Or what?"
"Now that is an interesting question Layla. The problem I believe, is that little sticker on the
plinth." Jerry unfolded one arm and pointed a straight finger at a small red circular sticker she
hadn't noticed before. "What is that sticker about? Don't tell me it's sold?"
“Shhh!”
“Very much so.” He whispered. “And I think you should collect the money before making the
purchaser feel a complete idiot.”
"But they must be a bloody idiot to buy my son's homework." She looked down at Kit whose
neck was craned up between Jerry and his mother’s. "Do you have an opinion?" she asked her
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son.
He shook his head. "But we're here now, you might as well collect the prize. Oh one
condition: if it's enough money I want a new bike."
Jerry gave an approving grunt, "Smart lad."
"Good evening ladies and gentleman, Oscar, your host." He bowed low, a folded stick of
liquorice, with an elegant flourish of his white bony fingers. The crowd gave a final murmur
then slowly the sound receded. Oscar waited until nothing but shhh could be heard. Cleared
his throat and began.
"In judging this year's entries we as usual try to move with the perpetual evolution of
creation. Though there are always qualities - all be they provisional by the very nature of our
evolutionary subject - qualities which will be in a constant state of development, some rules
are necessary. For without rules all will be lost in a quagmire where we cannot, simply cannot
distinguish or asses interesting, stimulating, critical, progressive practices from the vacuous.
Let us hope we have succeeded."
A round of applause went up and Layla looked quizzically at Jerry who smiled a quiet
acknowledgement.
"And now to our winners. We are delighted to say our four runners up and winner are all
representative of exceptional emerging talent. There are a few familiar names here, but as
usual we are discovering. That is what art is about. We are also thrilled to confirm that as per
previous years each winner's entry has already been sold. Testimony to the artists' talents and
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I say with some modesty The Bank's ability to spot that talent."
"Jerry, for goodness sakes, what shall I say?" Layla spoke through gritted teeth. I cannot
pretend I made that. I simply cannot just lie."
"Don't worry, it's simple.” They leant forward conspiratorially, “Tell them that actually you
are not the artist. That you are representing the artist who is determined to remain
anonymous. People will be fascinated."
"Anonymous?" she checked with Kit who shrugged approval.
"Yeah! Neat."
Layla squared her shoulders and watched the third runner up step forward to receive an
envelope and a black lacquered plaque from Oscar.
"They're all giving little speeches. What shall I say about the piece? I mean I can't say it was a
science homework project.”
"Some puff of erudition, you're in advertising, you'll handle it."
"Oh right. Hey Kit what did I write on the back? I wrote something can you remember."
"Yes," he paused assembling the words correctly, "I stood up in class and said it," he squinted
envisaging the moment, "You wrote ‘An interactive structure demonstrating man's effect on
nature’."
"Oh, that's good. Sounds like vacuous erudition," said Jerry. "Just waffle on about man's
interaction with nature. We create shadows, we have shadows," he spoke in a fey eerie voice.
"Got the gist,"
They both turned their head to the stage where the third runner up, Cy Mone was showing her
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piece. She was dressed in a slash of denim that covered part of her bum over union jack tights
and DM's. Her hair was a dry gold and sticking up at wild angles. Her eyes was darkened
with kohl, apart from that her freckly face was unmade up.
"The real moment of creation is when I actually vomit. That second. After that, the piece is
already ageing. In historical terms this piece is really quite an antique."
"No doubt all the more valuable," said Oscar. "It is unique. The material, the concept, the
aesthetic value. It also has that winning element: surprise."
"Yeah, you see a lot of people leaning forward to examine the texture and note the material,
then suddenly they recoil. That's the bit I love. That moment of repugnance is perfect, that is
part of the exhibit. It is all about humans, identity, what we are and what we do. If I am
remembered for anything I should like it to be for my development of non-medium-specific
conceptual art and its relevance to the broader issue of representation and identity
construction."
Cy was talking to the audience now not Oscar, most specifically to the small group of
journalists that were crouched by the stage. She nodded gravely acknowledging the weight of
her own sagacity.
"It is an intelligent piece and thank you, Cy Mone," Oscar waved a hand out to the audience
inviting applause and Cy stomped off the stage very pleased with herself.
"I should now like to introduce our second runner up, who has provided us something
uniquely simple but provocative. As judges we enjoyed this piece intensely. It rebuffs all
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cultural confinement. The creator has explored beyond the existing institutions of artistic
culture, eluding the place given to the artist by the reactionaries. The Bank underpins the rise
of British conceptual art to the hegemonic power that it is, by exploring just as our artists do,
by being open and unconfined. Once again we have discovered a completely new talent, may
I introduce Ms Layla Elliot.
Layla stood rooted to the spot. "Layla," Jerry prodded her in the back.
"But listen to him!"
"Get up there and give him more of the same back,"
"Go on mum, we've got a prize," said Kit gleefully.
Layla wiggled her toes in their points, composed her face to something that suited her shoes
and nail varnish, she could never recreate the sullen confrontational look of her fellow
competitors so opted for a calm insouciance. She strode forward with the confidence of a
professional.
Oscar held out his hand and Layla jumped off the top step to clasp his cold bony fingers.
Stages and large audiences she was used to from work, standing up there was the easy bit.
"Daarling, we are so excited. This piece... tell us a little about its composition."
"I'm sure you and the judges have deduced as much from... `Shadows' as any intrinsic
intelligence in its composition."
"Well tell us what you were thinking when you created Shadows?"
Layla winced, should she say now or after she had talked about the piece. Then in a voice that
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astonished herself for its calm she made her revelation, "I am sorry to disabuse you but I am
not the artist."
There was a rumble through the gallery. Quickly she raced on, "I cannot pretend to such
creativity myself," she indicated the piece on the wall behind her. "However our artist is of
such a secretive character I cannot reveal his identity. Cy Mone just spoke of identity, I'm
afraid our artist feels they have a good deal more work to do on that front and..." God she
thought to herself, was this going too far? "...they feel they do not have a complete identity
and therefore cannot appear in public.
"Not at all?" said Oscar instantly fascinated.
"Not so they would have to represent themselves, certainly not in an artistic forum.”
"Fantastic!” His voice went up an octave. "By their very absence they have sped along the
trajectory of identity politics," Oscar furrowed his brow intelligently. Layla furrowed her
brow attentively. "They have superseded issues of gender, sexuality and race. The
implications of identity-construction and the wider questions of representation are blown
apart here by… by their very `absence'."
"You are so correct," said Layla in a sober voice, determined not to catch Jerry's eye for fear
of crumpling into laughter.
"And to the work. Did the creator have any message of significance about `Shadows'?"
"Indeed. I think you have all deduced what `Shadows' is about."
"Naturally we have made our deductions but could you tell us what the artist had in mind?"
"They wouldn't want to inhibit the viewing experience, the interaction."
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"Indeed not but perhaps…?”
"Well I say it is an interactive structure. Consider nature's stillness," Layla was in her stride
now. Nothing she said was true so nothing she said would be wrong. "As the viewer moves
towards the piece to observe the shadows, the light is blocked by the viewer. The shadow is
altered or disappears altogether. This is man's effect on nature. Still nature..."
"I get it!" Leapt in Oscar instantly, "Nature's stillness and man's agitation."
Layla paused for a fraction absorbing the interpretation, then gave an appreciative smile in
agreement. "Exactly Oscar, you are most perceptive." She moved towards the piece and
round to the side. The shadow on the horizontal changed as she blocked the light. "That is
what the piece is about and how through our agitation our stillness is not recognised and
therefore we miss our own identity."
"Perfect. It is provocative," eulogised Oscar. " And the materials, what can you tell us about
the materials?"
"It is simple, some two twenty gsm recycled card in white, black oil paint and" Layla pointed
to the base, "framed in mock mahogany, a satirical reference to man's imposition of synthetic
materials leaving natural materials to question their own significance," Oscar nodded
vigorous agreement.
"Layla, I welcome your artist to the ranks of Bank awardees. I am sure we shall see a good
deal of the artist's work in the following weeks. Layla Elliot, representing Anonymous,"
Oscar announced to the room cueing in healthy applause. He handed Layla an envelope and
waved her towards the audience. She stepped down into the crowd with slightly wobbly
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knees and plunged into the excited embraces of Jerry and Kit.
The moment they emerged into the cold evening air Layla burst into hysterical laughter.
"Any help you need with regard to behaving like an exclusive agent just give me a call. But
really Layla you were truly magnificent." Jerry clamped Layla's arm under his. "I haven't
heard such perfect vacuous erudition in years. Oh my God what a business."
"Indeed what a business,"
"Have you told Zach?"
"Nope, he's still in Coventry."
"Oh he'll be infuriated."
"Doubt it. More likely he'll say told you so!"
She waved the envelope about her head. "Kit you shall have a new bike, the best one you can
find. Do you know what we won?" Kit jumped up to reach the cheque, which his mother held
above her head. "£2,000!"
"Wow!"
"And do you know what someone paid for your, for your..." she was convulsed with laughter,
"they paid £1,800 for your homework." Laughing so much tears seeped out of her eyes, she
wiped her cheek against Kit's.
Jerry hailed a cab, "Layla, I think this is the beginning of a lot of fun for you. Enjoy it, ciao,
ciao!"
Layla gave Jerry an effusive hug, oblivious to the many levels of pleasure it gave him, and
with her arm wrapped round Kit fell into the taxi.
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CHAPTER EIGHT
"Cooee Kit," Layla plonked a big kiss on Kit's head. "Not too long a day at school I hope,"
Layla hadn't returned from work feeling so energetic in years. The success of the gallery
evening and the thrill of being at the cutting edge of the art scene had injected her life with a
whole new dynamism. She'd had the same old day at work but suddenly life was fun. She
tossed the post onto the table and took off her coat. "Did you tell your friends about The Bank
award?"
"No mum!" Kit put down the roll of tin foil he was working with, placing it between the
pages of a text book to save his place.
"No?"
"The artist is anonymous remember."
"I know I said that darling but I know it's you, you know it's you. You can tell your friends if
you like. It's quite funny."
"But supposing someone tells the man who paid all that money for my shadow thing?"
"I doubt your school mates were amongst The Bank clientele."
"It's a small world mum. Remember Dad's Uruguayan project."
"Yes, how could we forget his projects!" A flash of self justification ran through her. "Well
perhaps you're right." She sat down in front of him at the kitchen table, fists pressed into her
cheeks amazed at how sensible young people could be. She watched him lining one of her
best china dishes with tin foil. Wedgewood she thought, it had been a wedding present, she
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let him carry on.
"Hello Mrs Elliot," Mrs C bustled in removing her pinny and folding it into her shopping bag.
"I've finished the upstairs so I'll be off now. He's such a good lad," she nodded at Kit, "Comes
straight in and does his homework. I wish my Colin had done that, perhaps he would have got
himself a real job. He's somewhere in South America leading people up the bleedin' Amazon.
Oh that reminds me if Mr Elliot should enquire tell him my cousins have received his ‘Miss
Consoo aila package’ and it's generating a lot of interest I can tell you."
"If I talk to him I certainly will Mrs C and thanks for everything."
"Toodlepip then."
Kit had stopped wrapping up the dish and was looking expectantly at his mother.
"All right?" Layla flashed him a happy grin, she really was happy, and began sifting through
her post. She caught Kit's eyes on the letters, when she looked at him again he didn't look
away.
"What's on your mind? Daddy?"
"Yes." He appeared curious, but not overly anxious Layla was relieved to note. "He hasn't
written, if that's what you were thinking?"
"Oh."
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What?" Her tone said she could ask `what' forever, at least until he told her `what'. Kit gave
in.
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"I was just wondering when he'll be forgiven?"
"Well he's still out there finding out what the real world is like, don't you worry about him.
It's been less than a week. In grown up terms that isn't even an hour in your bedroom."
Kit's scrunched brow shrouded his eyes making him look awfully serious. He was trying to
imagine a really severe punishment so he could convert it into adult penalties. He realised
with some surprise that he hadn't ever been really severely punished. He came up with being
sent to bed without dinner but wasn't sure if he should include the whole night in the
calculations when he would in fact be in bed anyway.
"Don't worry about your father, I'm sure he's having a real adventure," she insisted.
Prompting her to wonder for the first time since his departure what exactly he might be up to.
Until then she really hadn't given it any thought. She was still thrilled by the decisiveness of
her retribution, and the surprising pleasures of personal space. More than anything she was
experiencing an enormous relief from years of pent up frustration. Besides the excitement of
their little foray into the art world had taken up all her attention she had none to waste on her
inconsiderate husband. "Yup, don't worry about Dad," she patted his hand and began opening
the post. Kit quickly went back to his homework, pleased to be told not to worry.
The first letter was her bank statement which she whizzed through only noticing the
payments she hadn't made, which of course were all Zach's before she had cut
his card up. She picked one debit out, Hanaya, Japanese restaurant, lunch for £60, which was
obviously a meal for two people. Her sublime mood did a triple salco into anger; who the
hell was Zach buying lunch for without bothering to mention it? This was the limit. He was
not going to be forgiven any time soon, unless, there was just one possibility, she found
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herself hopeful.
“Did Dad buy you lunch in a Japanese restaurant?”
“Huh?”
“No. No, of course he didn’t. Kit I’m afraid your father’s just done one more bad thing and I
can’t tell you how angry I am.”
“Another punishment?”
“Yup!” Layla snapped.
“Was it really bad?”
Layla considered this. Buying a friend lunch wasn’t really bad? Not in itself, and either they
were married sharing money or they weren’t. But he never mentioned it; he never usually
went for lunch in Japanese restaurants, so it would be worth mentioning and frankly on top of
everything else she couldn’t care less about justifying her irritation.
“Yes, bloody bad enough, sorry, bad enough.”
Kit shrugged. Bad behaviour was punished. Not the end of the world. Plus he had a new
bike.
Layla dropped the statement with the rest of the letters, closing the subject in her mind. She
wouldn’t let Zach ruin her evening even in absentia.
So, what are you working on here?" Layla pulled a smile onto her face.
"Ripple tanks," Kit showed his mother the exercise book. "We've got to make our own ripple
tank."
The phone rang. "Lay Laa," the voice was effete and lingered on the last syllable of her name.
She knew who it was immediately, "Daarling you were magnificent, it was such a delight to
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meet you. Believe me The Bank is going to have terrific fun with you and of course you'll
have terrific fun with The Bank. Now when can we see the rest of your work? Your
Anonymous Artiste's work I mean?"
"Oscar, glad to hear from you." A pang of nervousness had switched off her natural smile, she
wrenched it back into her voice. "The rest of our work," Layla muted the quizzical tone just in
time.
"Yes, we like to hit the streets running. We want a large exhibition ASA possible. Tell me
when!"
"Yes," Layla looked over to Kit ripping up tin foil. "I'll really have to discuss it with, the
artist. He's pretty reclusive you know, and I can't say I'm always privy to his latest work."
"I've pencilled him in, I'm doing the invitations now. Call me and bring over at least six
pieces next week, then we can discuss the hanging and display arrangements with Cordelia.
Marvellous Lay Laa, see you."
"See yooo," she echoed, but he had already hung up.
Layla put her own phone down and leant against the wall. Arms folded round her ribs, her
fingers drumming her sides. She didn't know what to think. Her stomach was clenched with
nerves. Overwhelmed by the feeling of having done something horribly wrong, a foreboding
of something terrible about to happen to her. She hadn't felt like this since she'd ripped out a
chapter from her primary school history book and waited in terror for the day the screeching
Mrs Scott would ask her to turn to page 145 and read it. But perhaps like the history text this
was all unimportant when given some perspective. After all she had been asked to read page
145, she had kept up a historical monologue for a good two minutes before she had been
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rumbled that it wasn’t just a different page number in her text book and here she was today,
alive and well. Besides this was really Oscar and Co's problem. If they actually knew what
they were talking about this would never have happened. They didn't deserve her guilt. She
cleared her throat.
"Kit guess what. We have an entire exhibition coming up, what do you think? Have you got a
body of work stashed up in your bedroom?" Kit sniggered and shook his head. "Thanks for
the help," said Layla screwing her eyes together, as if she could squeeze out some inspiration.
“Shadows Mark II. Has a ring to it?”
“The shadow appears on the other side?”
“Yes, what do you think?”
“I think not,” Kit said, tongue between his lips, eyes squinting at a tricky fold.
The next day she called in on Jerry.
"Not in the office? Have you given up your day job already? Going to live on the profits of
Kit’s art?" Jerry said straightening a black painting on his wall.
"Not quite Jerry, however I have taken a little time out, I thought you might be able to help
me."
She dumped herself into his white swivel chair and slung her bag on the otherwise empty
desk. At first it irritated him, he liked his desk absolutely clear, except for whatever paper he
required for any particular call. It was a black crocheted sack and spilled over the clean
surface. Jerry eyed it, from his angle it looked like a black puddle, a decorative black puddle.
Actually it looked good, someone might buy that.
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"I have a horrible feeling our little prank is going to spin out of control"
"Oh?" Jerry turned his attention from the bag to the owner.
"Oscar called me last night,"
"Oscar was bound to call, he was rather taken."
"Yes," Layla said with a wry smile. "He's planning an exhibition and wants me to come up
with half a dozen pieces by next week."
"Ooh tricky," Jerry walked round his desk and leant on the side. He stretched his neck giving
his chin an habitual pat with the top of his flat hand. A waft of expensive aftershave puffed
out of him.
"I'm really stuck. I can't think of one new piece let alone six. What on earth was I on about?"
"Nature's stillness and man's agitation. I remember most clearly. You’re in an enviable
position." He pointed a business like finger at her. "You or rather your anonymous genius is a
recognised artist now, so almost anything you provide will be accepted. For a while at least.
May I suggest you develop the theme?"
"Yes but even if I could, how on earth can I produce an entire exhibition by next week!" She
yanked at her hair and made a small animalistic growl of frustration. "Why don't you take a
look at some more work, individual collections, get some inspiration. How about that Peter
Peter prize at the Tate?"
"Good idea. I’ll do just that.”
Layla scooped up her bag, mobiles, lipsticks and keys clanked against the desk. Jerry eyed the
black crocheted item swinging like a full net from her shoulder, no, he thought, better on the
white desk.
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He walked Layla to the door.
“Dinner tonight?”
“No, thanks anyway, Kit, tired, you know,”
“Yes, yes I know.”
Layla paused staring at the floor, then as if the thought had surprised her, she flicked her face
up. "Heard from Zach at all?"
"Zach?” Jerry repeated as if the man had been a long way from his thoughts. “No. Well not
since the original desperate call, not a peep since."
"Do you think he's all right?" Layla said more bemused than concerned, she expected him to
be begging his return by now.
"I don't mean to be partisan in this but I'm sure he's all right. It's time he learnt what life is like
without an angel like you."
"No, you're right. Selfish bastard. Do you know he took the liberty of buying someone else
lunch on my card without telling me. Who the hell is he buying lunch for!"
“Shocking! Lunch!" Jerry said which took a great deal of effort to hold. This was his chance,
but somehow it seemed too easy. "Well, now he has to buy his own lunch he'll learn."
Layla slung her bag over her other shoulder, leant forward for a kiss and with a wave
disappeared down the street.
The exhibition was heaving with visitors. Layla glanced at her watch, it was an ordinary
weekday afternoon, it appeared conceptual art was very popular. Layla slipped between a
group of five or so viewers huddled around a small construct hanging on the wall. She took in
the arrangement of cigarette butts, a skilful construction but no obvious reason for the
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cigarette butts, which ruled it out for her wall at least. Moving along there was a frieze of
dead insects, disgusting and unviewable in her opinion therefore defeating the object of art as
she considered it. Next was a free standing piece, a silver ball rolling up and down a board.
She eyed it from one angle, then crouched down for another and found herself face to face
with another woman looking equally bemused.
"Nice though," the lady offered with a shrug.
Layla agreed, "A new thought for that object”.
There was a sordid photograph of a girl rather worse for wear; a real London bus stuffed full
of umbrellas and a long round of pieces which varyingly intrigued, dumbfounded or amused
Layla. In all there were about forty exhibits in the room and when Layla came out, after
an hour and a half, she found it hard to remember any one piece with true clarity. They each
had something to communicate; an idea that had been born after much meditation no doubt:
eternity, futility, abandonment or mortality. But she couldn't help thinking that once the artist
had thrust these deep statements into the world, in as abrupt and impactful way they could
construct, it would be more fruitful for the viewer to spend time trying to match that depth of
thought; to take a relative amount of time to contemplate the concept. Otherwise it was no
more than the myriad of ideas that flicked through her mind on a daily sometimes, hourly
basis. Hardly an experience, hardly something new.
At home she made a coffee then sat at the table with a sketch pad. She tried to let her pencil
lead her, she wanted any idea, then she would think how it could manifest itself. Death was
the first idea that came to mind, she proposed a black page. How unoriginal, she muttered and
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recollected the blackboard Jerry had been hanging in his gallery. Probably called murder or
blood. Life, she murmured and placed one small, neat dot in the middle of the page. Very
contemporary, she observed, then sneered, and obvious. She ripped out the page, scrunched it
up and tossed it away.
Her knee knocked over Kit's construction of the previous night, she jumped forward and
caught it just in time. Then held it and stared at it. What did he say it was? She looked at it
from a distance there was, or had been until she knocked it over, an inch of water in a dish.
She raised it up and craned her neck to read any writing underneath. There was no label, just
`Wedgewood’ engraved in the surface. Basically it was a china dish lined in silver foil with a
shallow of water. On the table was an exercise book, Kit's scrawl at the top said: Ripple
Tanks, practical homework.
"A ripple tank," she repeated. Then almost shouted the words. "A ripple tank!" and hooted
with laughter. "Nature's stillness and man's agitation," she announced matching Oscar'
exuberance.
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CHAPTER TEN
Zach woke up in his very own single bed. He felt smug. The previous evening after washing
up he was about to join the others lounging about and smoking but decided on a small
exploration first. On the top floor he found three more rooms. He could easily attribute room
to occupant. Sasha's had heavy boots, an army knapsack and the big giveaway was a very
large grey bra draped off a chair back. It defied the category of lingerie, where would they
sell such things? Perhaps a builder's merchants. Bin's room was a tip, full of collected debris
from the streets and various `rubbish' creations in progress, in fact his entire room looked like
one of his creations in progress. Brown's was a symbol of normality in the house. Organised
but not too neat, he was a bloke. A pair of jeans lay on the floor where he'd taken them off
and a spare bicycle wheel was propped up on an old dresser. Two of his pictures were on the
wall and unique amongst the other occupants, one piece by someone else. Judging by the
style it was not painted by anyone in the house. He leant forward for a name, it was just
signed TL. It was relatively traditional, an oil painting, the subject an empty canoe on a lake.
What made it different were the colours, which were striking, vivid, particularly the sharp
vermilion stripes suggesting trees. He liked Brown all the more for his taste. Liking the image
gave him an unusual sensation. Although the style was very different to his own, the original
use of colour and brush strokes had an abstract edge. A new and strange thought struck him,
that he might actually learn from the artist's work and simultaneously he wondered that the
thought itself should be new and strange to him. Perhaps after all, he was too closed, perhaps
he was too pedestrian. This dreadful notion and acknowledgement of it even being a
possibility made him feel queasy. He had never doubted his talents, until suddenly now.
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Pedestrian and creativity were not partners. Feeling despondent he crept out of the room and
down the stairs, continuing his exploration of the house with a new purpose, like a beaten dog
looking for somewhere to hide. Clearly there was no room at the top of the house for him, the
floor below he knew from his painful experience with Claude's door to be full, that way lay
only assault by a lunatic Guadelupian or corruption by the resident nymphet. Feeling
desperate he fantasised about a secret door, or more precisely a secret room. He passed the
kitchen and bathroom. What was next to the bathroom? He did in fact remember another door
before you walked out to the yard. He returned back down the corridor and there indeed was a
door. He opened it onto pitch black and a rather musty smell. Brushing his hand across the
walls he found a switch which produced a dull yellow glow, illuminating a decrepit bare
board staircase. It took him down into the basement. The smell grew stronger but it wasn't
unbearable. It was much cooler down there. He had to duck for the last few steps and arrived
in a large room which was empty and carpeted in black. There was one disused speaker on its
side in a corner and various bits of grey foam stuck to the ceiling. Someone had been playing
music down there or was it a soundproofed torture chamber? He didn’t care he was
desperate.
There was an open fire place which hadn't been used in a while, except as an ashtray. He
peered into the sooty debris and realised with a shiver that what had looked like a piece of
crushed paper was the wing of a dead bird. The room could have been quite light. Along the
pavement side wall was a long line of windows and above them was a full length sky light.
That half of the basement felt a bit like a conservatory, he used the word with reserve as the
dirt made it hard for sunlight to penetrate. The only furniture in the room was a sofa. All
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things considered Zach decided this room was perfect.
He climbed back up the stairs and strode into the sitting room where everyone was slumped
over cushions. The conversation had petered out, besides they could hardly see each other for
the smoke.
"I've washed up," no one moved except Adrianne who gave him a weak but pleasant smile.
"I'm off to bed. I thought I'd take the basement." He waited for some reaction. There were a
few grunts, no one objected. He looked at Adrianne who just shrugged. "I don't suppose
there's a spare sheet or anything about?"
"Sure mate." It was Brown who struggled up. His heavy feet took him upstairs then he
returned with a pile of maroon polyester, a sleeping bag and an old blanket.
Zach was amazed to discover such trappings of domesticity. It was a simple
thing, spare sheets, but he never imagined any of them capable of supplying guest linen. He
laughed at the likely evolution in ten years time, where they'd each have their own little
homes, their own neat kitchens and their very own set of spare sheets for guests.
“Thanks so much Brown,”
“Away yer go…”
He scooped up the kitten and disappeared downstairs. Gingerly he brushed off the sofa. He
decided against shaking out the cushions as it might disturb something he couldn't deal with
that late at night. He laid out sheets sealing them carefully round the edges, the sleeping bag
didn't zip up so he used it as a second blanket and was able to make himself warm enough.
He snuggled down and placed the kitten on his chest. The creature seemed more than happy
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to stay there, it began a soft purring to the rhythm of his breathing. With a mighty sense of
relief Zach gave himself up to a deep sleep.
The next morning he opened his eyes and let his nose peep over the covers. He could see his
breath. The polyester sheets had a bobbly texture acquired after years of use. He dreamed of
his crisp white duvet and the clean linens that appeared miraculously every Tuesday and
Friday evening. He loved those days sinking into that just washed fragrance and special
crispy texture of fresh laundry. He stared at the white chipboard wallpaper that someone had
tried to remove then apparently given up and his small pile of clothes on the floor and once
again began to feel sorry for himself. What had he done to deserve this? He was forty he
should be comfortable. And that was as much as his frozen brain could muster as he lay in his
shivering foetal curl. The kitten mewed and Zach cupped his hands round the furry ball and
pulled him up to his chest.
"You warm enough little fellow?"
"Mew,"
"Mew," replied Zach rubbing his nose against the kitten's. "Me neither." The kitten crawled
back down under the cover and nestled behind Zach in the crook of his legs.
The door flung open and Adrianne appeared in pyjamas and a long cashmere jumper. She
plumped herself heavily on top of Zach, her bum landing directly on his legs
"Kit!" Zach yelled, "Get up! You've probably killed him."
"Kit?" Adrianne catapulted herself off the bed.
"Oh Jesus! Oh god this is awful!" Zach scrabbled at the covers.
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"What on earth..." Adrianne leant forward.
"Kit's in the bed." He pushed Adrianne away and disappeared upside down in the bedding
flailing about under the sheets. He emerged, hair brushed forward and slightly static, with a
limp scrag of fur cupped in his hand. Adrianne recoiled, Zach moaned in misery and Kit
opened his eyes then gave a luxurious stretch.
"He's all right." Zach grinned insanely at Adrianne who nodded with eager relief. "Christ
Adrianne! Just, just look where you're sitting!" As the words left his mouth he recognised an
unseemly petulance in his tone.
"Right," Adrianne approached the sofa again, "Mind if I hop in? Carefully? It's freezing."
Zach shrugged, he dug his nails into the palm of his hand and thought of cleaning out drains.
The kitten crawled up Zach's shoulder and sat himself on his head. Adrianne had settled up
the other end with her toes tucked under Zach's legs.
"So you've made yourself cosy down here. Isn't it a bit damp?" She sniffed the air.
"A bit," Zach stretched an arm across the backrest, trying to look comfortable and relaxed.
Adrianne wiggled her feet, Zach edged to the side without appearing to flinch too obviously.
It demanded tight muscle control.
"Shy?" said Adrianne provocatively, tickling his buttock with one pointed toe.
Zach flung her a sarcastic smile, eliciting a howl of laughter from Adrianne.
“What’s come over you then? Bourgeois prudishness?”
"Well you may say so, I see it as average morality."
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Suddenly Adrianne leapt across the covers and flung herself astride his body. "Bit late for that
isn't it?" she made a soft snuggle behind his ear with the tip of her nose. The kitten stuck his
claws into Zach's scalp and propelled himself across the room. Pain zapped through Zach's
head. He was going to end up in with some terrible Pavlovian sex pain association. He raised
his hands to grab Adrianne and throw her off, then gave up. What was the good? She'd
probably enjoy the tussle. He flopped his hands by his side.
"Now don't come over all coy. I'm half your age, got quite a good figure," she cupped her
breasts and presented them to him, “Everyone does it you know.”
“With you?”
“Nope, I mean with eachother,” she pressed a finger against his nose reprimanding his
facetiousness. “Come on, we’ve already done it.”
“Only for a second,” Zach reminded her.
“Oh God it’s only sex, a bit of fun. No big deal.”
“Well perhaps it should be, a big deal?” He lifted a strand of her hair gently off his chest.
“And if you don’t mind me saying, if you don’t think it’s a big deal you’re missing out.
Besides I’m married which means a lot of complication all round so I shan’t be relinquishing
myself again.” He tipped his legs and rolled her off.
She straightened her cashmere on her shoulders and glanced down his body. "You don't look
awfully married to me,"
"I am though." Zach shifted under the duvet to hide his shape. "And as for being bourgeois if
I am, I rather enjoyed being so." He lifted a maroon bobbly sheet then dropped it back with
dismay, "It was cleaner."
"Oh poo!” She ripped the blanket off Zach revealing bare legs and white shorts. "Nice bod, ah
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well. But if now's not the time to resume relations maybe later," she leant over to kiss him,
deliberately pressing herself against him. Zach stared at his dirty socks, then turned his
attention to a patch of damp on the wall until Adrianne slipped off the bed.
"Oh well, you'll take me to Jerry anyway? Even without the sex?" Zach looked up puzzled.
"Now don't be so bloody selfish all the time!" She railed. "I mean you're not the only
struggling artist in the world."
"Oh Jerry! Don't worry I hadn't forgotten," Zach quickly remembered what she was talking
about. "We're seeing Jerry, of course we are," he nodded vigorously, "I’ll call today,' he
grabbed his trousers.
Partially mollified, Adrianne turned to leave again. On the way out she bent down and
scooped Kit into her arms. Zach slumped back on the bed. His stomach ached and his head.
He really needed to go to the loo. He was becoming worried he might develop a medical
condition. What he wondered was the longest recorded time for constipation. But there was
no way he could face the back yard. He was scared of it. It had featured in some particularly
nasty dreams the night before. He clenched his buttocks and waited painfully for the cramp to
subside then laboriously got up and dressed and headed up to the kitchen hoping Claude
wouldn't be in there.
Claude was there and Bin and Sasha but not Brown. Adrianne came in just behind Zach,
which relieved him, she could be a defence. Claude was enveloped in smoke, his legs crossed
and feet up on the only spare chair in the kitchen.
"What's the news Bin?" Sasha was chewing at her finger nails and looking over her knuckles
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at Bin.
"Awe, dunno,"
"Well something's making you happy." She blew out a piece of nail from between her lips,
Zach looked past her and counted silently in his head so he didn’t get sick.
"I'm going to the Biennale."
"So cool Bin," said Sasha enthusiastically. Bin beamed shyly.
"What as a cleaner?" said Claude acerbically. It sounded harsher with the French accent. Bin
looked hurt.
"That's terrific Bin," Sasha intervened. "God I'd lurve to go. Like what've you got coming
up?" She prodded Claude's knee.
“Arto," he said flatly. "I'm changing my whole programme. Deconstructionism eez too
popular so I've figured out zis concept, eets fantastic." He clicked his fingers in her face, then
swung his legs off the chair and clutched at his head. Rapt contemplating his own genius.
Zach took the vacated chair for Adrianne. She lifted the kitten up for a kiss then put it on the
table, sat down and began stroking its back, flattening it's small body over the Formica. Zach
helped himself to cereal and ate it leaning on the counter. He crossed his legs still fighting the
pull of gravity in his nether regions.
"Are you a deconstructionist?" Zach asked conversationally.
"Am I fuck," replied Claude. "If that's what the market wants then that's what they can 'ave.
Ideeots!" He stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray, scraped back his chair and left the room.
"Ooh dearey me, you've upset him again," said Sasha waving her fingers before her as if they
were searing hot.
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"I only asked if he was a deconstructionist. He said he was into desconstructinism"
"I know what you asked," said Sasha in a slightly whiney voice, "I don't want to be rude," she
said sounding like she did, "but it sounded a bit pompous.”
"Hey," interrupted Adrianne, "I am meeting Jerry Farr today, the agent supremo. I’m on my
way,” she spiralled one finger in the air.
“An agent,” said Bin gloomily, unable to hide his personal hopelessness.
"You've got an agent?" said Sasha with an incredulity that didn't pass by Zach. He guessed
Sasha basically considered Adrianne too pretty to have an agent.
"Yup, Jerry Farr."
"Jerry Farr! Blimey. How d'you manage that?" She grinned at Adrianne as if there was only
one answer and it wasn't talent.
"Well I'm introducing Adrianne to Jerry." Zach tried to temper the excitement. "I've no idea if
he can take anyone on." In fact he was pretty confident he knew what Jerry’s response would
be. “Who is your agent?” Zach asked Sasha innocently. She shoved toast in her mouth and
tossed the ceiling a look apparently at the end of her patience with him.
Adrianne and Zach were left on their own in a heavy silence you could hear the dust settle a
hundredth layer on the shelves. Zach felt sheepish.
"Look I wasn't deliberately trying to rile her. Did I know she didn't have an agent?"
"None of them do. It doesn't make them any lesser artists you know." Zach noticed the `them'.
Adrianne had taken a few steps beyond reality he thought. "The thing with Claude is that he's
angry."
"Ah yes the angry young artist."
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"Exactly. Really angry. And whatever you say will upset him. He's been trying to sell
something for a year now and nothing's happened."
"A year!" When do they think I sold my last picture, Zach asked himself.
"He's tried sound installations, got into the light movement for a bit and now he's trying
something different. Good for him I say. You have to be commercially aware whatever you
do."
"So where's the artistic dedication, the heart and soul if it's just a commercial response."
"Being commercial doesn't mean you aren't an artist, where's your logic?" Where's yours he
thought but Adrianne was going on in a pedantic sort of voice, "And believe me it doesn't do
to criticise."
"I merely asked,"
"The criticism was implicit," Adrianne said with virtuous judgment.
There was no competing with this group so utterly full of youthful self-belief. Of course the
criticism was implicit, he knew it. The man wasn't a deconstructionist or adherent to any
other spurious movement. He was just sending a plumb line down into any pot that he could
think of, trying his luck and looking permanently angry, as if that would imbue him with
some credibility.
"But I'm pleased for Bin, that's terrific getting into the Biennale," Zach tried to
counterbalance his cynicism.
"Yes it's fantastic isn't it. I'd love to go but then I haven't the patience to sit in a room all day,
in complete silence except to say please don't touch."
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"Please don't touch," repeated Zach curiously.
Adrianne turned her face up at him with a minx grin.
"You're kidding?" Zach sniggered. Adrianne burst into laughter, Zach joined in and was
promptly repaid for his sneering with a sharp cramp in his stomach.
He staggered against the counter then stood up straight and pushed all the appropriate
muscles into action.
"Anything wrong?" Adrianne seemed more amused by his pain than concerned.
"Stomach. One minute," he didn't want to talk. He needed every ounce of effort to be
channeled to his sphincter. When it was safe to do so he breathed deeper. He undid his jacket,
letting the cool air slow down his metabolism.
Zach was alone now, sitting staring at the kitchen table, the drying sugar puffs lucky to be left to
their own devices for the day. What was the point, he thought, clutching his hair. They were artists,
as much as anyone was an artist. Van Gogh didn’t take time over his work, it all happened in
minutes, things didn’t have to be complicated. Old Duchamps was just a clever sod. Art could be
anything, anything anyone saw in it. Not everyone was a fine art connoisseur. But all the time he
was musing Zach knew he was only thinking about one thing, Mr Batey’s proposal. It was a
tempting thought that the man would buy anything he did, mostly because Jerry Farr recommended
him. That is if of course if Zach could compromise. But what the hell was he compromising
anyway? It wasn’t like everyone loved his work and it should be kept pure. He slammed his hands
on the table. And if they were all doing it why the hell shouldn’t he?
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It took only a few hours to get some tools of the trade. He’d gone to his old supplier and used up
probably the only favour he could ask, begging for a canvas and set of oils. He asked for extra red.
By late afternoon Zach was looking at the results of his ridiculous encounter with the man he had
silently dubbed the gangster, a sagging canvas pasted in colour. It was the biggest canvas he had
ever painted, three foot by three. This man wanted quantity he would give him quantity. There
was little difference in the appearance between the random globs of paint on his palate to the
paint spread on the canvas. But there you had it, `More Paint'. Zach was amazed at how easy it
was to succumb to the temptations of immediate cash. Broke and his morals had run amok.
Principle be damned if next week he would have £2,000 in his pocket. Besides no one but Ned
Batey and his cronies would ever see the painting so it would hardly tarnish his reputation. That
precious reputation! He wondered with a little dread if Layla had ever had similar sentiments.
Zach covered most of the painting in another layer of oily dabs. He stood back and examined the
effect, he smiled tossed the brush aside and clapped. He picked up a cigarette and rammed it
between his teeth and with a pencil, wrote the title in the only corner coated in less than a
centimetre of paint, `More Paint', adding an indecipherable signature. He had found an old radio
CD player and having riffled politely through Brown’s room a few CDs. He flicked on a Grateful
Dead CD, ‘Truckin’ kicked off. He sat on the floor for a while smoking, flicking his thumb nail
under a tooth. When he had finished his smoke he picked up a trowel and approached the canvas.
With rhythmic movements he danced before it, intermittently dashing on more paint. It dripped
with its own slow will. This was a genuine 3D effort. He would earn his money.
At ten that night he wondered if it would ever dry, there were some large globs that looked
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unsure if they were even going to stick with the picture. The nose, if it was a nose, was none too
firm. He took a brush and pressed it against the fleshy coloured surface. It seemed more solid but
now the face, if even remotely distinguishable as such was smothered. He had started in a sort of
Lucien Freud style, warts and all, florid features. Now he realized it looked more Gauguin, at
least at his syphilitic end. He would say it was an abstract, he could hear the waffle, something
about identity dissolved.
Zach felt he should try to make some improvement to the coagulating droop. He moved to pick
up a brush then an overwhelming inertia enveloped him. He hated it. It was finished. It was
little more than a bill for £2,000. But he’d done it and Jerry's so called blessing felt like a burden.
*****
"Jerry, it's ready," Zach said in a low voice, it sounded cryptic.
"Great, Zach? What is ready? And how are you doing by the way?"
Of course, Zach said to himself, just because he had sold the painting, pocketed
the cash and spent it one hundred times over in his mind, didn't mean Jerry had
been dwelling on the matter. "The painting for Mr Batey.”
"You’ve done one? Where? I mean where are you.”
“I’ll explain later.”
“Anyway sorry Zach, I was miles away. Fantastic, more paint?"
"Tons. It is laden. Jerry, tell me," Zach's voice transformed to very earnest, "this
painting is crap. I've given you my best work and nothing sells, what if I can sell
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crap?"
"Then crap it is. You want to earn a living don't you?" Zach had never wanted to
earn a living more than he did now. Before he hadn’t been sure. Layla did that
and he didn't like the way she was so grumpy about it all the time.
"I am confused though."
"Fine bring the painting in and we'll sell it, then see how you feel. I expect you
need a few pennies by now. Mr Batey is coming in tomorrow morning in fact, so
can you get it to me first thing?"
"Right you are!"
"See you tomorrow,"
The next day Zach was looking at `More Paint' trying to figure out how to pack it
up in order to transport it to the gallery. He looked at the bubble wrap in his hand
and the roll of brown paper in the corner. There was no way though. The thing
was still very wet. If he wrapped it in anything, half of it would be left stuck to the
package. He tried to lift it but to put his hands either side would mean covering his
face in paint. He went behind the canvas, slipped a hand at the back and lifted it.
The chair it had been resting on toppled and crashed to the floor. Zach stood still,
his arms stretched, his vision obscured by the canvas. It was surprisingly heavy.
He moved gingerly through the basement. It would be easier if he could get out
into a more open space. But once he'd made it to the corridor there didn't seem
anywhere to put it down, he carried on to the front door and tried levering the
latch with his elbow. He was fiddling with it irritably when the shadow of the
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postman appeared.
"You all right in there?"
"Yers," Zach growled.
"You locked in?"
"No, I'm fine,"
"Sure?"
"Yes, yes!" Zach snapped impatiently. He staggered back to find a place to rest
the painting without covering the hall in oil paint, as if they’d notice.
When he had made it out of the house through a series of tedious moves, lifting
the painting, putting it down, shutting door, lifting painting, he emerged onto the
street in search of a taxi. Jerry would have to pay out of his commission. It was
impossible to hail a taxi holding the painting so he staggered to the end of the
street, where he would stand a chance of flagging one on the main road, and
propped the painting against a bush. The leaves dusted the top edge of the canvas
and gained a red tinge.
"She won't like that," an old lady tuttered stopping to look at the tainted leaves.
Zach smiled apologetically, pulled the painting forward with one arm and waved
the other at a taxi's yellow light.
The taxi pulled up, Zach watched the old lady totter off down the road then leant
the painting back against the bush to open the taxi door. "Albermarle Street," he
said and the driver nodded. Zach turned back for the canvas. The taxi driver
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watched from the comfort of his seat as Zach manoeuvred the awkward weight,
"Making a meal of that aren't you?" Zach struggled on, "Should have wrapped it
up,"
"Can't it's still wet."
"Wet paint is it?"
"Fresh from the artist's fair hands," said Zach through his efforts.
"I don't care if it's fresh from the fridge, you're not bloody bringing a slab of wet
paint into my cab, sorry mate." The door swung shut automatically and the cab
drove off.
Zach was left on the pavement, his arms stretched painfully round the back of the
canvas. He grimaced and bit his lip. Okay, he said to himself, I'll walk.
He stepped off the kerb and ignored the screech of brakes, he couldn't see a thing
and he didn't care. He plunged on driven by frustration. It was all right for the first
half mile but as he approached Oxford Street the number of pedestrians made it
difficult for him to get a clear run. Plenty of unseen voices cursed him, but Zach
was on a mission. His arms had ceased to function normally and if he stopped he'd
never be able to pick the painting up again. If he didn't get this over with quickly,
his arms might just fall off and he would never paint again.
He belted across Oxford Street against the lights, narrowly missing the wheels of
a number 13 bus and headed down Davies Street. He pivoted round a corner,
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puffing, sweat dripping over his eye lids and stinging his vision. An irritating
rivulet of sweat coursed down his cheek, he stretched his tongue and licked it off.
Suddenly there was a shriek and contact. Zach stopped, his arms rigid with cramp
he was physically unable to release his load.
"You absolute idiot!" A frightfully posh and frightfully angry voice abused him.
"What the hell are you doing! See what you've done."
Zach considered running off, going through the pain barrier and escaping but
anyone, whatever her age or form was likely to catch him, his legs trembled with
the simple exertion of standing still. Somehow the forward momentum had eased
the pain, now he was still he was in agony. Zach lowered the painting, mentally
relaxed his grip and after an excruciating moment his fingers thawed and released
the canvas. Slowly Zach unravelled his body. His arms were aching as if they'd
been pummelled with a mallet, his fingers wouldn't respond to any instructions at
all. Wiping his forehead with the back of his rigid hand he turned to face his
victim, his cramped hands splayed before him monstrously as if ready to grip
something, like her throat. The woman was about fifty, she had a remarkably
tight, small figure, as if she'd had all over liposuction; she was impeccably neat or
had been until the collision. Zach could see she had recently emerged from an
expensive hairdresser, and was probably en route for some light shopping in
Selfridges. This was a woman who knew what she wanted and got it. Her
encounter with Zach was not on that wish list, this was a zero tolerance situation.
Her eyes were livid, screwed with malice and her cheeks flamed red. In fact her
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face was red, her Burberry Mac was red, her bony hands were red.
Zach looked at the painting. The vague impression of a woman's body was
evident, if you knew the impression had been made by a woman of course,
otherwise things were still abstract.
"I..." Zach faltered. He waved a hand at the painting, going for some sympathy
which she quickly saw off with a violent look.
The episode ended when Zach wrote an IOU with ID for a certain amount that
covered the Burberry Mac, a hair do and a manicure. The woman ripped the note
from his hand, her teeth gritted. "I should offer to buy you a bottle of turpentine
really," Zach said. The woman's tiny feet fidgeted, as if she was about to kick him.
He retreated.
He winced as he folded his aching fingers round the edges of the painting once
more. It felt twice, three times as heavy. He couldn't go on. He dropped the canvas
against a shop window and slid to the pavement next to `More Paint'. He closed
his eyes and entered a deep tunnel of oblivious stillness, this was better. Then a
metal pellet hit his knee. Zach swam up from his exhausted blank, blinked open
his eyes and found the metal pellet was a fifty pence piece. Someone had tossed
him a coin. Money! Fifty pence. And he realised grimly it was actually the most
he'd earned in years. A loud manic laugh blast out of him. He flicked the coin in
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the air then slipped it into his pocket. Feeling somehow buoyed by his new
earning power he managed to pull himself to his feet. With a supreme effort he
flexed his shoulders stretched his fingers then hoisted the painting up and
staggered forward for the last stretch.
Finally he stumbled to the door of Jerry's gallery and slumped against the glass.
The door opened slowly, Jerry was understandably nervous seeing Zach’s puce
and sweating visage.
"Are you all right?"
"No. Help me with this bloody plank."
Jerry held Zach's arm and inched him through the door. He tried to take the
painting from Zach but realised he would have to spread himself against a canvas
of paint so thick you'd need Wellingtons to walk over it. He stepped back
fastidiously eyeing his clothes in case paint had touched him. Zach rested the
painting on the floor, "Undo my fingers." He whimpered as Jerry did that.
The phone rang and Jerry skipped back to his desk. Once more Zach slumped to
the floor but Jerry, ever the salesman and wary of the impression Zach would
make, gesticulated at him to get up. Zach caught sight of himself in the shop glass
and realised he did appear rather destitute. Paint and sweat smeared his face.
Jerry flicked his fingers to catch Zach's attention and pointed to the phone.
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"Excellent Mr Batey. Timing couldn't be better. We have the painting and indeed
our artist would love to hear your views on the piece ... no his pleasure, he
respects your opinion ...Indeed, see you, oh, well a bit more than my other artists
actually, yes, see you soon, goodbye."
Jerry clapped his hands and skipped back over to Zach, "He's on his way and he
has a case of cash." His voice fairly trembled with happy excitement.
"A case of cash?"
"Well metaphorically, a case I mean, he always pays in cash." Jerry gave a deep
wink.
"Is he some sort of criminal?"
"Criminal taste I can tell you!" Jerry guffawed. They both glanced at `More Paint'
each uncertain how condemning they could be.
"Today your fortunes change," Jerry trundled on. "I wouldn’t do this for anyone
and it’s rare circumstances.”
"I'm grateful for your loyalty and perseverance Jerry," Zach spoke with a resonant
disappointment.
"Don't forget the money Zach," Jerry clapped him on the back.
"I haven't, why do you think I'm here? But if anyone, anyone knows this is my
work I'll have to kill you!"
"Now, now Zach,"
"And don't think I'll do anything like this again,"
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“Believe me I don’t really want to make this a habit either,” Jerry waved a hand at
‘More Paint’.
Suddenly there was a loud crack in the street. A sound that jarred with the rest of
the world. Jerry jumped like a skittish deer. Women’s shrieks were followed by
the screech of tyres and then the definite sound of a car crash. Then another loud
crack, which sounded like nothing but gunshot. Zach ducked, Jerry threw himself
next to Zach in a half crouch.
"Was that..?" asked Zach. Jerry nodded.
"And a car crash," added Jerry going pale.
The street went quiet again. A momentary lull before the panic.
Zach plucked at Jerry and they stood up still clutching each other's sleeves, like a
pair of old ladies, they peered out of the front door. The commotion resumed, it
was one hundred yards away. Hysterical people were fleeing the scene thudding
past the gallery, faces set on exit and self-preservation. The sound of a siren
blared, the shouts gradually faded as the voluntary evacuation was completed. The
only evidence of the event was a large white limousine parked at an angle in the
side of another car and half a dozen uniformed police shouting into their radios.
Zach and Jerry stared back towards the wreckage absorbing the crime scene.
"It's like watching a film being made," Jerry eventually observed with a
detachment he didn't feel. Zach nodded, mute with a horrid foreboding.
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A policeman began walking up the street towards them, his eyes scanning the
shop numbers. He spoke into his radio and stopped right outside Jerry's gallery.
"Oh good God. I knew it," Zach could have wept.
“Allo, is your telephone number 0205961 3347?” the policeman asked.
*****
Zach sat in his basement, staring out of the window at the bulbs trying to nose
their way into existence as he thought of a life that had just been extinguished.
Ned Batey was ex Ned Batey. It turned out the man with execrable taste was
indeed a gang land leader, a mob man. Rather violent, according to the police
officer who had appeared at Jerry's gallery having traced Mr Batey's last call
before the life was shot out of him.
Zach shivered. This was God’s retribution for compromising his principles. He’d
never do it, never again. And a worse thought, was his painting, `More Paint', the
last thing Ed Batey thought about? Was that the image he took to his grave? If
only he could have liked `The Girl'. To die with a hideous image like that on your
mind! Zach raised his eyes in despair. But then he was about to buy the thing
presumably he liked it, or would have liked it. He rubbed his face with the flat
palms of his hands, he leant forward onto the counter, poor bloke he thought.
Except he hadn't paid for the damn painting! Zach kicked the chair. If only they'd
shot the man after he'd been to the gallery. One hundred yards more and he'd have
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a case of cash. Zach groaned.
Adrianne came down into the basement and found Zach looking deeply miserable.
“Hey,” she put an arm on his shoulders and began rubbing them. “Brooding artist, what’s
up?” She flicked his hair out of his eyes.
“Is anything worth it?” he asked looking up at her.
“Lots of things I’d say,” she plumped herself across his lap as if he was Christine Keeler’s
chair and began pulling his ears which was surprisingly therapeutic.
“Come on, can’t be that bad.”
“’tis,” said Zach petulantly and enjoying the sensation in his ears.
“Well how about thinking about someone else? Me for instance. That will take your mind
off your worries.”
Zach looked up at her, she was fairly distracting that was a fact.
“Jerry?” she said in a small but coercive voice.
“Awe, somehow I don’t think now is the time.”
“Never is.”
“No, really,”
In a few more minutes Adrianne had persuaded him to take her to Jerry Farr the next day. Not
because of what she did but because it was the only way to stop her. She was in the wrong
business thought Zach.
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*******
They reached Albermarle Street and Adrianne's strides became more buoyant. She had
stopped talking to Zach, which was a relief. He caught a glimpse of her features, she had
become quite intense. Her young brow furrowed deep in some deliberation. Only then did it
dawn on Zach just how important this opportunity was for Adrianne. A twinge of guilt nearly
weakened his grip on his nether regions which was still an all consuming problem. He
banished the thought, Adrianne had not endured one year of oblivion let alone the many
dispiriting years most artists experienced, this was hardly a desperate case.
He never heard Adrianne's pitch. The minute they were through the door Zach pointed to the
loo and dashed past Jerry, "Urgent need. This is Adrianne, great artist in the making," and
disappeared.
Jerry stared at the striking young woman and let his mind wander over Zach's possible
relationship to her. Adrianne fired up her unlimited resource of confidence and planted
herself in front of his desk.
"Jerry Farr, this is a great pleasure," she posed in a casually seductive way, one hand on hip,
allowing a curtain of hair to drape over her left shoulder.
"Hmmm," said Jerry looking after Zach's retreat.
When Zach emerged he felt five pounds lighter and ten times happier. He restrained an
impulse to eulogise about his evacuation.
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"How are we doing?" This was directed at Jerry who was sat behind his desk looking
defensive. Adrianne was still perched on the front of his desk, her bottom aimed towards the
gallery owner, a picture held for viewing between two dainty fingers. Zach rested a hand on
Jerry's shoulder reassuringly.
"The absurdity of life," her winning smile was substituted for a more intelligent look.
"Incredibly absurd," said Jerry making a particular face at Zach.
"You’ve heard of Sartre? Camus and Sartre were existentialists...”
“I think Jerry probably has heard of Sartre, have you Jerry?” He grinned. Adrianne thought
about feeling undermined then thought better of it.
“So Jerry, do you think we can work together?" She leant forward her shirt fell open slightly,
then she hastened to pull it together and turned the picture in her hand all as if coyly
reminding Jerry she was there for business. Zach imagined how disgusted Sasha would be if
she could see Adrianne now, and let out an involuntary chuckle. Jerry looked at him, one
eyebrow raised.
Zach shook his head apologetically, "Sorry, thinking of something else," he mumbled and
examined his own shirt buttons.
"I'll give you a call," said Jerry in his usual business-like manner. "Nice of Zach to introduce
us." He dealt with would be artists like this about ten times a week, although this one made a
particularly good saleswoman, not a hint of nerves or fear of rejection. Absurd indeed, given
the work.
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Adrianne glided off the desk, maintaining her insouciant smile. Jerry looked past her to Zach.
“Could you do me a favour whilst you’re here Zach? It’s just downstairs a… a something, I
can’t lift on my own and needs to be hung…” he muttered getting up from his chair and
beckoning Zach to follow.
When Jerry had closed the door of the storage cupboard and pulled on the light switch, he
prodded Zach in the chest angrily, "What are you playing at?"
"What? What are you so het up about?"
"Her!" he jabbed a finger towards the ceiling.
"Oh come on Jerry, she's just another one of the many."
"One of many! How many?"
"Well you tell me, I'm living with five right now."
"Five? What are you talking about?"
"What are you talking about!"
"I'm talking about that nymphet up there. What are you doing with her?"
"Bringing her to you. Just as a favour," said Zach slightly awkward, feeling there was some
confusion developing.
"A favour to me! What would I do with her!" squeaked Jerry, his face reddening above his
blue striped shirt.
"No Jerry, a favour to me."
"Look you're off the rails, leave me out of it," Jerry put his hands up defensively. "I felt
completely compromised and I can tell you that doesn’t happen to me often.”
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“She's got ambitions to be an artist, she's put a roof over my head. You could help. I'm
homeless remember!"
"You're, you're like a common prostitute!" Jerry hissed, sounding very maiden -auntish. It
brought a silence between them, whilst each fathomed exactly what they had been talking
about.
Zach let out a small huff of protest, "A common prostitute?"
"Really if you want to get back with Layla you're heading in the wrong direction and you’ll have no
one but yourself to blame. Remember that.”
"Don't be ridiculous. Look I'm merely living in Adrianne’s commune, an artists'
commune. She invited me to join them. I've got my own room!" Zach added righteously.
"Glad to hear it. So she's not...”
"Don't be daft!" he elongated the last word as if Jerry were a fool and thinking he sounded guilty as
hell at the same time. Bloody Layla, he thought, making me feel guilty.
“So why've you brought her to me? Her work's facile." Jerry folded his arms.
"Don't call Sartre facile!" said Zach and they both burst out laughing, giving eachother a don't
be so naughty push.
"Look, it's just that's what she wanted. She's desperate to meet you and for you to represent
her, make her a Young Brit."
"Oh right, tick. Anything else?"
"Nah, no pressure. Look I had to be seen to do something. If I don't I really will have to sleep
with her. You just don't understand," he added petulantly.
"Oh so put upon," Jerry said without any sympathy.
"Anyway you never know what will catch your eye!"
"Art catches my eye, and talent," Jerry said with finality.
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Zach looked about him at the brooms, floor mop, cleaning equipment and the mess of
contemporary work lined against the wall. Depressing to consider the original thought and
effort that had gone into the early moments of each piece. All that hope invested in each one,
the hope that one day it would be as famous as a shark in brine and now here it lay in Jerry's
broom cupboard. Zach felt sad.
"We'd better go up," Jerry whispered. He put his hand on the door knob.
"Jerry, how's Layla?"
"Layla is terrific, I'm sorry to tell you,"
"Good, good," said Zach. "Has she said anything about me?"
"Like?" He released the door.
"Don't be mean. Like when I can come home?"
"What makes you think this is so temporary?"
"She wouldn't!"
Jerry enjoyed the shock on his friend's face. “No probably not. But I wouldn't count the days.
She's making the most of her time and I suggest you do too. Not in that way either," he jutted
his chin towards the next floor. "She tossed you out for a reason."
"Lots of reasons I expect. But what she wants me to do about it is beyond me."
"Well when you do know I expect she'll let you back home. Now excuse me I can't afford to
be caught in a dark broom cupboard with another man."
"I want to see Kit. This all happened so suddenly we didn't make any plans. Don't I have
rights?"
"Oh I'm sure you do. Have you asked to see him?"
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"Umm, no,”
“Have you tried meeting up with him from school?"
"No "
"Well Zach therein lies your problem. You've got to make these things happen. Layla
wouldn't stop you seeing your son, it's just her she doesn't want you to see."
"Right," Zach didn't know if that was a comforting thought.
They opened the door and fell out. Jerry was quick to notice Adrianne's feet at the top of the
stairs. He shoved Zach, "And that one has to come up if we could only reach it," he winked
laboriously.
"Oh, right you are," Zach followed Jerry back into the cupboard.
Jerry randomly selected a huge canvas propped against the wall. "This big one here, I need
your help with this one." They hoisted the piece up between them, staggered up the stairs and
into the gallery.
"Just here's fine."
"Hmm something going up?" asked Adrianne sitting supine on the white leather sofa as if she
hadn't moved.
"Oh yes. Thanks Zach," he dusted off his trousers.
"It's a big piece. Where's it going, there?" She pointed in front of her to the empty wall right
behind Jerry's desk. "Or perhaps you would like to keep my piece for a few weeks? That
would go nicely there.”
“Oh sorry, you’re absolutely right, this is going behind my desk, and as you can see there’s
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nowhere else to hang another piece.” He pointed about the gallery and then to the carefully
preserved empty white space. He walked round to feign some admiration for the huge picture
he’d selected at random and looking at it for the first time was horrified to realize they had
picked up Zach’s ‘More Paint’. Both he and Zach froze, glanced sideways at eachother
thinking of the day before and Mr Batey’s grizzly end.
“Sort of jinxed isn’t it?” Jerry said sotto voce to Zach who nodded slowly, rather nervous.
“Mine would be easier to hang,” Adrianne was saying.
“What?”
“Mine is more minimalist, less, well less,” she concluded.
Jerry was now adamant that he would not be bullied by this pushy girl. "Zach, sorry to trouble
you but could you help me put it up? The hammer, the hanging stuff," he said agitated, it's
right there.
"Oh, um yes."
"You know you'd be happier with a tiny small piece like mine behind you. Go on give it a
chance for a few weeks?" Adrianne cajoled.
Jerry was dumfounded. She was extraordinary, why couldn't she gracefully accept his
rejection and push off? Instead out of traditional English politeness he felt obliged to plunge
on into this elaborate defence.
Zach fetched a wooden tool box and set about measuring the back of the canvas and the
height of the wall.
"Not too high, we won't be able to lift it."
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"Ooh, actually I recognise that signature. Well Zach, I must say it looks terrific," cooed
Adrianne, "I just love it. Better than his other stuff, don't you think Jerry?" Jerry made no
comment, seemingly absorbed in the intricacies of hanging. "One more idea. Perhaps there's
room for mine next to it?" She stood up and linked arms with Zach, "We could be partners,"
she winked.
Jerry stared at the paint bestrewn canvas and his beautiful white wall. Then at Adrianne who
had lifted her work up against the wall to see how the two might look together.
"Zach get that thing on the hooks." Jerry watched his white backdrop disappear behind the
expanse of thick paint.
"Doesn't look too bad hung up on a good wall," said Zach. Jerry bit his lip. "This is great
Jerry, pride of place behind your desk. So this is what you were saving it for, was it?" he
smirked mischievously. "I mean I hope I haven't misunderstood. It's really annoying to be
misunderstood." Jerry narrowed his eyes. Zach laughed.
"Come on Adrianne. I can’t stay here any longer I’ll put my back out.”
"Oh but Jerry and I haven't really agreed anything,"
"Well you can't expect on the spot decisions," Zach put his arm on her shoulder and guided
her towards the door away from Jerry's frozen thin smile.
"Hold on!" Adrianne said with shrill insistence and a look of plain astonishment on her face.
"What about my work?"
"He'll think about it," Zach said feeling Jerry had done more than his bit.
"For how long?" she said dubiously. "When will I hear from you?" she called across the ten
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yards Zach had put between them.
Jerry had had enough. He looked up at ‘More Paint’ right behind his desk and at the most
obstinate candidate he had ever met. He strode towards her, not wishing to yell out the
rejection. "As you insist I’ll tell you, it's not my sort of thing," he said tightly.
"Not your sort of thing?" she cast her eyes over the creations displayed around the gallery.
"What exactly is your thing?"
"I look for something that challenges me. Does your work challenge me? Frankly no. I did
Sartre at secondary school."
"This challenges you?" she cast a disparaging hand round the gallery.
"In its own way each of these pieces does. They challenge me, astonish me or at least give me
some pleasure by simply looking at them."
"And his work challenges you?" she pointed at Zach who was taken completely by surprise
finding himself an example and then dread as his agent was pressed to explain his support.
Zach had always avoided asking himself what Jerry saw in his work. He assumed he liked it
well enough but he was well aware that really he represented him because they were old
friends. He felt horribly vulnerable but decided if there was ever a time in life to take it on the
chin now was it. He looked at Jerry with a forgiving curiosity.
Jerry to his credit and to Zach's eternal gratitude didn't flinch.
"That," he pointed to `More Paint', "is certainly a challenge." He wiped his glowing brow and
calmed down. "Zach has accumulated a body of work that is a production of talent, an
understanding of aesthetics and an enduring dedication. He is a skilled artist and that for me,
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at least is rather refreshing.
Adrianne stood between the two of them with her hands on her hips. Finally silenced and
Zach noticed, her face had an unbecoming twist. Adrianne was unaccustomed to rejection.
She had styled herself the struggling artist but hadn’t actually done much struggling.
However as that may be, Zach didn’t feel like sneering any more, he felt sorry for her. He put
his arm on her shoulder, she bristled, then gave in as he steered her towards the door.
"I'll see you with your next piece soon I hope Zach," Jerry said straightening his tie as if he'd
been in a physical fight. Zach returned a smile of wan resignation.
“Shall I leave my details?” Adrianne tried.
“No need, no need, so sorry.”
Zach escorted the deflated Adrianne to a bench in a nearby garden square. The usual energy
force she exuded had melted away. He sat her down and settled next to her, pulling his
overcoat round his chest. In the stony silence that followed he felt the breeze on his cheek and
listened to it toss the brown dry leaves over the pavement. Adrianne sat bolt upright, her face
immobile. Eventually it was time to talk.
"Come now, what's the big shock? You can't expect to become a successful artist overnight."
She didn't respond. "To be a true artist you have to struggle, starve, know hardship, be old or
wise, die, that sort of thing." He encouraged her.
“Like you have eh?”
“Well perhaps I’m not really a true artist,” he said quietly hating to hear some of the truth in
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the words.
Without warning she slumped on his chest and burst into tears. Zach looked about worried
that anyone he knew might see him in this compromising position. He lifted his hands away
and put one on the back of the bench and one on the arm. She wrapped her arms round his
chest and sobbed.
"I really thought this was my chance. God if I can get a face to face meeting with
Jerry Farr through his best mate and still not be taken on it's a waste of time. I'm sick of this
racket, my parents are sick of this racket."
"Your parents?"
"Yes. They won't give me any more money until I get a proper job. They can't bear me
hanging out with those losers."
"Sasha, Bin and Co? I thought they were your friends."
"They're not going anywhere are they! I mean Bin is a bloody monitor for art shows and the
only painting Sasha has done in the past year is a wall."
Zach smiled at this new image of Sasha. Pretentious was something he usually associated
with middle class housewives. He retracted his arm, gave her knee a pat and edged her off his
chest.
"Now, now it really isn't that easy. If you do want to succeed you have to study and work
hard." She looked up at him with tearful eyes and a rather purposeful girlish appeal. "You're
talented. You can draw and paint I'm sure," he said not at all sure. "And you are one of the
most driven individuals I have ever met. That's what it takes, drive and determination,"
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Adrianne wiped her nose on the back of her hand, sniffed and managed a small smile. "Is that
what you've got? Drive and determination?" Zach gaped a bit, but Adrianne didn't wait for an
answer, she'd stopped caring. "Take me for a drink, a large bottle of wine will make me feel
much better."
She was up and tugging him along with something of her usual command. She had a shortterm mission that was enough to propel her along. It was a bit like having a pet dog, which
one moment was on the avid scent of a rabbit, next moment jumping about a visitor.
"Let's go in here, I love these places," Adrianne made an abrupt right through a stainless steel
door into an airy modern atrium. Immediately a waiter in sharp black pants and crisp shirt
appeared with two menus under his arm.
"Two? Lunch?"
"Thank you," said Adrianne her voice a little tremulous but very much back to her normal
self.
Zach hovered at the door, then yanked at Adrianne's arm just as she was about to march after
the strident waiter.
"Adrianne, I would love to take you for a drink, even a large bottle of wine, but I really don't
fancy a place like this. My scene is more a pub."
"Mine isn't, oh come on I feel like being cheered up."
"I'm sure you do." He folded his arms, intractable. "Adrianne I am a struggling artist. I can't
eat in places like this." He jerked his chin towards the dining rooms Adrianne looked back at
the fashionable black leather chairs, the skinny customers in colourful modish outfits and the
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waiter, hand on hip impatient. Reluctantly she turned and followed Zach out of the door.
"So you don't have any money?"
"I do actually," Zach countered, "I have twelve pounds and twenty two pence." Adrianne
looked at him as if he was mad and he burst out laughing. "That's it I'm afraid, unless I sell a
painting tomorrow."
"So you have no money at all?"
"My everything, mostly everything comes from advertising not art. My wife's in advertising."
"Advertising?"
"Yup,"
"Well!" Adrianne shrugged her coat round her shoulders, “Well,” she repeated more
thoughtfully.
"Here let's blow my last fortune on a small celebration. I can't do much else with it can I?"
Now it was him pulling her across the road but he was heading for a wine merchants. He
bought a half decent claret, then he took her to a small delicatessen he knew and selected
some ripe cheese and Italian bread. He shook out the remaining change in his hand and
counted it up, there was £6.80 left. Tomorrow he absolutely had to get a job.
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Can I get you a drink?" A waitress with a perfectly curve free figure clad in dark jersey
planted herself in front of them like a black bamboo stick with a polite smile.
"White wine,” Layla said mentally comparing the girl's outline to her own curves. She felt
strangely out of fashion simply on account of her shape. The waitress looked to Kit.
"Same please," he said and Layla elbowed him, "water," he corrected.
"Was that a boy or a girl?" Layla asked Kit.
"Doesn't look like any of the boys in my school, that's for sure.”
Kit stared at the strange company. Given that he was generally surrounded by little more
exciting than school uniform the clothing parade looked like something from a film. Either
the outfits were completely bland sort of Thunderbirds or featured some wildly unusual detail
that he wouldn't expect to see `worn'. A large green feather in one woman's hair, a tiny silver
bolt through a man's cheek, a ten inch wide silver belt that looked like something from an old
toy tank he had under his bed, a string vest through which he could see the girls’ underwear,
which must be a mistake and shouldn't someone tell her?
"This is a bit like the Star Wars cafe."
"I know what you mean." Layla was feeling underdressed but erring on the cool in jeans and
T shirt.
“They’re the only normal looking ones here,” Kit pointed to a small neat woman was talking
in a loud pompous voice to her friend.
“Completely ruined my Burberry,” she complained, “red paint everywhere, then the cheque
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bounced!”
“Well Kit be nice anyway, they’re the ones with the money according to Oscar.”
Their drinks appeared. Kit's water looked more exciting than anything he had ever drunk
before. It was served in a tall red glass with curly stem and a glass straw clinking against ice.
"There's Jerry," Kit said waving across the room.
Jerry came straight over with a big grin. "So whose smart idea is this? Yours again Kit?"
"Kit as usual is the inspiration and technician," Layla clinked her glass with Kit who clinked
it back and looked round the room feeling magnificently important.
"I mean to have just one exhibit, it's terrific," Jerry watched the viewers circling the piece on
a low pedestal with deep concentration. Two young girls settled on the floor cross legged and
examined the work with a studied intensity.
"Profound!" Oscar glided up. "Don't you think Jerry?" he held out his hand, one foot pointed
a little forward, making the gesture quite balletic, "Oscar," he announced himself. "We've met
before."
"Indeed," Jerry drew out the word and tipped his chin with a polite grace. Layla saw a whole
tempestuous history pass in the glance.
"So," Oscar lowered his voice to a secret whisper, "Any idea who anonymous is? Our Layla
is far too discreet,"
"None at all," Jerry shrugged laboriously. Kit stared up at his mother with a grin, Layla half
puckered her lips to say shhh. "It's drawing the crowds though, I've never seen so many at an
opening,"
"There's a good deal of speculation, some say the artist is royalty." Oscar rolled his thin lips
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knowingly, "Prince Hmmm," he mimed the name, then said a little louder "he's too scared to
let his father know he has moved on from Stubbs."
"You don't say!"
"Ha! I don't!" Oscar planted his fingers on his chest his face mock horrified. "Just imagine if
it was though, the sheer contrariness of the idea." He whooped with laughter.
"By the way I love the single minded approach," Jerry nodded towards the lone plinth now
encircled by a dozen cross-legged viewers in silent contemplation.
"All down to our marketing guru here," Layla gave a modest flick to the corners of her mouth
as Oscar waxed lyrical. "People need time to react, their reaction is what makes the exhibit."
"It's not just what they see but what they feel and what other's see them feeling and if they
don't have the time to contemplate, then the exhibit is half what it should be. If there's a
myriad of other ideas and distractions how can any one piece be whole? My God have you
seen that Peter Peter gallery? A hundred ideas and you're barely left with one original
thought. Too much really. I've seen the way." He gave Layla a team smile then wittered on.
"Yes Jerry, Anonymous is a success and there's plenty more to come I believe. This is part of
a body of work, a continuing theme on ‘man's agitation and his disruptive effect on nature's
intrinsic stillness’. It all leads to the lack of consciousness of our own stillness. The water is
still until man approaches it, then, it ripples. We can't pass anything without disruption."
"Ah," nodded Jerry giving a good impression of intense interest.
"Yes Layla, or rather Anonymous has expounded a whole Philosophy, you can see it is
catching on. We've a website!" His eyes widened and his chin dipped up and down in
affirmation like an eager chicken.
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The room was now quite full, most viewers had taken up positions on the floor. About fifty
cross-legged people sat with their hands balanced on their knees and seraphic smiles on their
lips. Kit was now among them although he was grinning and looking about himself excitedly,
unlike the more absorbed crowd around him.
Beside Layla a woman in stripy pink and green tights under a duffel coat began explaining
the piece to her earnest companion. "Yes, if we can discover our stillness and act from
stillness without agitation then we would be more reasoned. People respond to that,"
"Yes, yes they do," replied the companion, jingling huge green beads through her fingers
"and if we are all more reasoned and pleasant then the world will be a happier world."
"Absolutely Ollie. This work just brings it all home to me, every time I thump down the
street, into someone's house, up to someone's desk I am bringing agitation to their lives
because I am agitated. I have lost my inner stillness."
"Mmm, me too."
"Perfect!" hissed Oscar clapping his hands, "My God we've discovered the secret to world
peace," he gave a shrill laugh and with a neat twist skipped off, a bundle of energy and
agitation.
"You're a prophet it seems."
"Jerry, it's a ripple tank," hissed Layla. "Kit's homework again," she spoke to the floor hiding
her lips as she brushed back her hair.
"You don't say," Jerry replied through similarly gritted teeth. They watched in awe as the
crowd thickened and the concentration grew. Then Jerry cleared his throat, "Listen talking of
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great artists,"
"We weren't,"
"No well, talking of art, I saw your husband the other day."
"Is he thin?"
"You mean is he dying of starvation? No he seems to be fed, he's living in an artists'
commune in North London."
Layla looked for the joke but Jerry was serious.
"I bet he's missing his cleaning lady,"
"Well it galls me to say it but what he is missing is you two. However you don’t need to see
him, in fact I’d probably recommend against it, but he might see Kit. He accepts he's being
punished but doesn't know what the rules are."
"He can see Kit any time. He's just got to get off his backside and make things happen for
himself." Layla looked over at her son who was still cross-legged on the floor staring at the
faces about him with open curiosity. "I think Kit would rather like to see his father too but I'm
not going to organise it. That's the point."
"Yes of course it is,"
"Besides I agree with your recommendation. I don't want to see him. I'm having a ball. This
simply wouldn't have happened for me with him about and you know I'm really enjoying not
cooking his dinner every night, and you don’t think I’m being a bit harsh?"
"I'm quite with you Layla, you know as well that as soon as you set eyes on him he’ll have
you in a mire of guilt and before you know it he'll be back with all his dirty socks."
"You’re so right," she kissed Jerry on the cheek.
Jerry nudged Layla's arm. "Hey look, this is extraordinary, your event is quite a sensation."
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The circle around the plinth was already ten deep and more people were arriving. Nearly two
thirds of the room was full of cross-legged meditators, all their energies focused on `Ripples'
her son's homework. And then a low hum began, Layla looked about and it grew and grew,
Ommmmm.
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CHAPTER TWELVE
"That's it, I need to earn some money," shrieked Adrianne.
"Me too," agreed Zach.
They sat at the kitchen table both eyeing the pile of washing up menacing them from the corner,
Zach tickling Kit's ears.
"The first thing I'd spend my money on is a cleaning lady,"
"Has to be recommended," Zach agreed.
"Bloody slobs. They think it's unsocialist to wash up, to sully their hands with domestic chores."
Zach watched Adrianne's face wrinkle unpleasantly and wondered when she had last washed up.
He began counting the plates in the sink, for want of anything to say.
"I just can't stand the mess!" And then without segue, "Why didn't he want my work?"
Zach shrugged, he had consoled Adrianne over Jerry's rejection for more than three hours, there
was nothing else he could say bar telling the truth or for her gratification denigrating his friend’s
taste and frankly he didn’t think Jerry deserved that. He concentrated on some mental
calculations as to who had caused the mess around them. He figured that everyone had used a
breakfast bowl, most had used a plate at breakfast and four people had made themselves lunch,
probably a sandwich as there was a soggy lettuce leaf sitting in a small smear of mayonnaise and
the table was littered with crumbs. He glanced at the red sticky saucepan on the cooker oozing
red sticky sauce onto the red sticky 1970's gas hob. Someone had had some pasta and tomato
sauce but maybe that was yesterday.
"What I really want is to be a kept woman," she sidled across the table and sat in Zach's lap.
"Afraid I'm not your type then," Adrianne ran her fingers over his face and into his hair. He
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shook his knees and tipped her off, she slumped back into her chair and made an exaggerated
pout.
"Oh well, I just thought us two unemployed losers could find something more interesting to do
than moan."
"I'm sure we could. But I have to disagree about unemployed losers. Firstly you have a job so
you are not technically an unemployed loser. You just need to get more money from it. And as
for me I am an artist, technically I am not unemployed either."
"You haven't got any money though."
"True. So `loser' is arguable."
"But if work is defined as what one does to earn a living, you are technically unemployed."
"Well thanks for that. I feel a whole lot better."
"How did your wife put up with you? It must have been a bit annoying to have you lounging
about at home with your art, while she did her high powered exec bit."
"I was not lounging about!"
"Oh you're a `new man', a househusband are you? Running the life behind the woman?"
Adrianne was feeling wicked because she was feeling miserable. Now Zach was feeling
miserable and also angry. But he let his clenched jaw drop into a sort of smile and suddenly
threw the soggy lettuce at Adrianne's face. She ducked too late. “Hey! Creep!” she peeled it off
her cheek but grinned again.
"Anyway I am planning, most definitely to rectify this earning situation. I am going to find a
job."
"How?"
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"Well," Zach shrugged as if it were obvious, "that place you look for jobs."
"A recruitment agency?"
"Sure," Zach's scratching progressed down the kitten's back, Kit made kittenish noises. "I've seen
them on the high street corners,"
"You've seen them on the high street corners?" Adrianne copied his well-enunciated voice, then
giggled. "What sort of job?"
"I have no idea. I don't have any experience and am qualified for nothing, apart from a degree in
art. Somehow I don't think they'll have a job description saying ‘artist required', so I'll take
anything they think I can do. Some high powered executive role I expect," he secretly hoped his
superior intellect really might produce such an offer. He rather fancied sitting behind a desk
directing proceedings. He couldn't really start manual labour at his age.
He stood up to leave, put the kitten on his seat and pulled on his jacket just as the kitchen door
opened.
"Hey folks," mumbled Sasha crashing into the room in her hobnailed boots, backpack and
voluminous puffer jacket. Kit hopped down to the floor and cowered under the table. Everything
about Sasha seemed so large and heavy and no doubt terrifying to the six inch ball of fluff.
"Thought this would interest you," she tossed a piece of paper on the table. Zach zipped up his
jacket and leant over to read the notice, something that had been ripped off a lamppost or
wherever it had been pinned. When he read it he picked it up and re read it. "Well don't you think
little Whiskers there sounds familiar?" Sasha said. Adrianne took the notice.
"You mean someone's looking for Kit?"
"Its owner," said Sasha phlegmatically. The door bell rang, "that will be her now."
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"What do you mean?" Zach was alarmed, he scooped Kit up and caressed him protectively.
"I saw this notice pinned to someone's front gate and was reading it when a little old lady popped
out of her house and gave me her big sob story." Sasha went to get the door. Adrianne huddled
next to Zach as if social services were coming for their offspring.
"I shan't come in," an old lady's voice trembled.
"Come on," Sasha was having none of this dawdling on the doorstep.
"No! Really, just bring him here."
"It's too cold, come inside will you," you could almost hear Sasha dragging the lady up the
corridor.
The soft blue wool hat and tightly tied mac entered the kitchen. Little old lady eyes roved about
the walls and floor in a state of extreme anxiety. At full height she reached up to Sasha's chest.
Sasha stood behind her smirking, making patting motions over the woman's head. Obviously she
found the whole scene greatly amusing.
"Muffin!" the old lady cried putting her hands to her mouth as she realised Muffin's fearful
predicament. Captured in a squat, a den of iniquity or whatever her tidy old mind had decided
about the scarily squalid property.
"Give me back Muffin!" her voice trembled with urgency as if Muffin were being held over a pot
of boiling water.
Zach held Kit closer and Adrianne moved closer to Zach. "What makes you think this is Muffin? He's Kit."
"That is Muffin! I would know him anywhere. I fed him for three weeks with a pipette." She
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clutched an umbrella in her tight fist and grimaced defiantly.
"I found Kit abandoned in the street."
"In Cullen Street?"
"Yes, Cullen Street. Mewling in a hedge, half starved."
"That hedge was my hedge, in my front garden. I put my Muffin out for a widdle and you just
pass by, cat nap him and take him home! Is nothing safe round here?" She cast her eyes about the
kitchen dashing over the rubbish collections and Bin's smashed bottles.
"Well he looked awfully small and thin,"
"Of course he's small! He's six weeks old!" She smacked her umbrella bravely on the floorboards
but didn't make any advance. "Six weeks! You stupid, stupid..."
And behind her Sasha mouthed `stupid old bag!' Then Sasha turned to Zach, "So don't you think
Kit is probably Muffin?"
Adrianne looked at the notice, the old woman and Kit. She turned her face up to Zach and made
a conciliatory half smile. Zach stroked Kit, rubbed his warm fur next to his face then walked
over to the old lady. The woman's face froze.
"You bunch of…of drug addicts!" Zach stopped in his tracks. "You give me my Muffin or I'm
calling the police."
"Mother really! I'm giving you Muffin," Zach said with sincerity, "My apologies for the
mistaken identity." He was about to hand the scrap of fur over, then the old lady’s face screwed
up with such patent disgust he drew back. He had invariably made assumptions about other
people purely on their appearance but he never imagined anyone would make assumptions about
him, she wouldn’t have been so disgusted seeing him the surroundings of his middle class home.
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“I'm sorry, we haven't introduced ourselves." He held out his hand, “I’m Zach Elliot,”
"Leave me alone! And give me Muffin!" She lunged for the kitten, which Zach relinquished for
fear of hurting the creature. The old woman turned and fled at a fast hobble out of the kitchen.
They listened to the door slam.
"Bye Kit," Adrianne said a little sadly.
Sasha was clearly thrilled with what she considered something of a practical joke. Zach felt the
absent warmth in the palm of his hands. He buttoned his collar and set forth into the big wide
world, no son, no kitten, a tinny emptiness in his heart.
*****
Still feeling the proverbial Jack, except with no axe on his arm or knapsack of food for the
journey, he strode up the high street until he came to a busy junction where he stopped to
recollect exactly where it was that he had seen jobs advertised. He had often noticed them though
on a lower level of awareness, thinking how easy it seemed to earn £20,000 and maybe he
should. But these thoughts were fleeting and never serious. He spotted the A board a hundred
yards further up the street. ‘Temp admin. Clerk, £8.50/hr plus OT’. Could he do that? Suddenly a
strange fear gripped him. He was forty, educated, accustomed to a certain living and he might
not be qualified to be a temp admin clerk whatever that involved or earn a derisory £8.50 an
hour. He had always valued his potential earnings as far greater, ignoring the fact that they were
always potential and had been exactly that for fifteen years. Could an admin clerk produce
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something someone would buy for £5,000? But anyway could he still do that, he taunted himself
as he pushed open the door to the Giant's castle. A large buxom two-chinned ogre caught his eye
and indicated a free seat in front of her desk. A shiny gold badge on her right breast said she was
called Sandy.
"Good afternoon Sandy," Zach deployed his winning grin. "Zach Elliot," he put out his hand,
which Sandy watched, then as a second thought touched lightly with her own hand as if it were
some alien greeting. She coughed and blushed ruffling her top half like a downy mother goose.
"I was hoping you could secure me some gainful employ," Zach said looking about for that pot
of gold.
"First things first, we have to fill out a form," she said briskly, then deflated in a muddle because
she couldn't find her forms.
"We do?
"You do, but you know, I'll help." She opened her eyes wide in earnest encouragement but
looking startled, as heavy mascara-brushed lashes batted against her brow and cheeks like
squashed spiders.
She found her clip board and forms. "Here we are," Sandy licked a pencil.
"Does it write better if you lick it?" Zach had genuinely never understood why anyone would
lick a pencil, depositing lead on their tongue. Sandy giggled helplessly, he had no idea why. He
also couldn’t understand why she was that side of the desk and he was his side. Him an educated
cultured individual and her, he thought of many unkind thoughts reflecting on her intellect and
deluded sense of style.
"Name?" she managed finally,
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"Oh Zach Elliot,"
"Zach Elliot, hmm,” she said as if the name were a clue to the job she might match. “Sorry but
we do need these details,"
"42, born on tenth of the fifth 64,"
"How did you know I was going to ask that?"
"Intuition,"
Sandy cocked her head and blinked, apparently impressed with her candidate’s brightness.
"Education?"
"Oxford university. MA in classical art at Kings College London."
"Ooh an intellectual," she smiled brimming with what seemed warm praise. Zach shrugged
assuming a false modesty and feeling his intellectual superiority.
“Art?”
"Yes," Zach was eager now that she had caught on. Perhaps they did have jobs for artists after
all.
"And work experience?"
"Artist."
"And then?"
"Artist," he repeated as if she might not have heard him first time.
"Yes but what next?"
"Nothing."
"What about before that?" Sandy had the pen poised and a sweet smile ready.
"Not entirely sure that's relevant unless you have anything for rug dealers in Tibet?"
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Sandy put the clip board down. "So how long were you an artist?"
"I've painted all the time really. Even when I was in Tibet, with the rugs," he flicked his eyes to
the empty line on the form.
"So what sort of job are you looking for Mr Elliot?"
"What have you got?" he could see disappointment flooding the powdered cheeks.
"Well I am not sure what you are qualified for?" Now she was looking positively forlorn.
"Artist? Painting? Failing that anything that you consider appropriate. I wouldn’t mind a desk
job? Sorry I've never done this before."
"No, I can see that." Sandy turned to her computer and tapped in a few words with a clickety
clack of vermillion nails . She stared at the screen, the pale blue illuminating her face. The
spiders, worn out after the flurry of excitement now drooped over her downy cheek. Zach leant
forward to see the screen, Sandy coughed politely and tapped another key, leaving a company
logo floating in a sea of blue.
"Well," she clasped her hands in front of her chest which rested on the desk like a jersey clad
cushion. She assumed an encouraging face.
Zach left with an appointment card for the very next morning. Poor Sandy had done her best but
it had been a somewhat depressing experience. What had finally struck him, and it had come as a
shock, though of course he realised that it shouldn't be a shock, was that he was unqualified and
unlikely ever to be qualified, to do Layla's job. He couldn't even be her assistant and he also
realized he couldn’t even do Sandy’s job.
Back at the commune he stepped into the corridor and quietly closed the door behind him,
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creeping past the kitchen door and straight to the basement stairs. He couldn't face talking to any
of his peculiar housemates about his lack of appeal for the job market.
He dumped a number of blue plastic bags on his bed which contained some essential shopping
he’d done earlier and then he stood under the windows. Even in the dwindling day there was still
some light sifting through the wire meshed glass. There would be more if it weren't for the
growth of moss and muck on the outside of the windows there was even some moss on the inside
he noticed. He stood on tip toes and brushed a finger across the glass, it was filthy. Light he
needed and then some paint. First he would create light. He emptied the blue plastic bags and
sorted out the washing up liquid and dusters he'd bought from a street stall having carefully
compared prices in Tesco. Now he had £1.80 left. With a reviving sense of purpose he set about
more cleaning than he had done in a life time. He splashed soapy water over the windows,
rubbing furiously. It was horribly uncomfortable work, his back stretched awkwardly and his
entire left side was soaked by the grey water dripping down his arm. When he had given the
windows a good finish with newspaper, a trick he remembered from watching Mrs C, he went
outside.
Around the basement windows was a heap of rubbish as if someone had knocked over a couple
of full dustbins. He had brought out a broom and set about sweeping up old cans and wrappers.
He collected that all into a pile and shoved it into a bin liner. Rubbish attracted rubbish, the
facelift he was about to give the front of the basement would hopefully stop people using it as a
dump.
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He set about with the scraper on the glass. It was dark now but there was a lamp post right
behind him and he didn't need much light the layers of dirt were so thick and obvious. Another
hour later and his hands were pink with scrubbing and dipping in the hot soapy water. He used
an old car windscreen wiper to swipe the water off the glass, skimming rubber top to bottom and
pushing away behind him, beginning to enjoy the rhythmic movement and novel sense of
achievement. Perhaps he could get work as a window cleaner, he wouldn’t be averse. By eight
o’ clock he was peering down through the immaculate glass surface into his new light filled
studio.
All he needed now was some more paint. Having packed his cleaning materials away in his
room, the rest of the house would have no interest in sharing them, he set off out again. At the
end of the street he bought a bar of organic chocolate, leaving himself he noted with less than
£1.00.
****
Outside his old home he peered up at the dark windows. Everyone had turned in early it seemed.
There was a faint glow from his bedroom, or rather Layla's, she was probably reading in bed.
He'd have to be quiet. Jerry had said he should go, but to keep out of Layla's way. He suspected a
late night visit was not what she had in mind. He looked about in the flowerbed and bent down
under a rhododendron he had planted eight years ago. Digging into the ground, he found four or
five pebbles. He picked the smallest, looked up at the second floor, took aim and chucked it up at
Kit's window. He missed and the stone clattered down onto the conservatory roof. He selected
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another slightly larger and threw it slightly harder, this one hit the window pane. He waited for
Kit to appear, he didn't. He dropped the pebbles and scrabbled about for larger stones and found
only one more, it was probably too big. He rolled it about in his palm anyway, he needed to
make some noise. He carefully judged the distance and necessary trajectory, taking good aim, he
pulled back his arm then let it fly. There was a foreboding dull crack and the stone cascaded
down the wall, glanced off the conservatory frame and landed at his feet. This time a light went
on in the room, the curtains were pulled back and the first thing Zach saw was the zigzag break
across the windowpane. Behind the glass appeared Kit's face, whitish in the light, possibly from
fear. He pressed against the window, holding his hands either side of his face to help him
penetrate the outside darkness. For a moment Zach savoured the look of his boy in the familiar
horizontal stripe of his pyjamas, his hair tousled and his eyes scrunched up. Then he lifted his
arms and waved energetically.
"Pssst, Kit it's me!" his breath appeared before him in a puff.
Kit lifted the window and leant out. A shadow passed Layla's window, he put his fingers to his
lips and crouched in the bush.
"Dad," Kit called in a hoarse whisper. "You broke the window!”
A moment passed as he stared at curtains in Layla’s bedroom, his bedroom, trying to identify a
bulge at the frame side. Was it her secretly staring down at him or just the material. He didn’t
like the idea of her seeing him crouched in a bush in the garden, extremely undignified and he
didn’t like the idea of explaining the window.
The light went out in her bedroom, she could only do that from the bed, she wasn’t hiding by the
window then.
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"Dad, hi " Kit called him again and he remembered who he had come to see. Kit’s lack of
surprise was a little disappointing. His father was staggering about the garden in the middle of
the night smashing windows and he just says hi.
"Hi Kit," he waved an arm, "Come on down,"
"It's cold, you come up here."
"Put a jumper on and get your ass down here." Exasperated he thrust a pointed finger towards the
ground by his feet, which were wet in the night dew.
Kit's head retreated. His lights went off then another glow illuminated his ceiling, a golden
puddle moved across the room to the door and then flickered in the house as Kit came down the
stairs. He arrived in the conservatory, a powerful orb of light, crossed the room, then Kit was
unlocking the door and the light seared into Zach's face.
"Turn the torch off," Zach put his hands to his eyes, the bright light was blinding him. The light
went out. "Hello boy," Zach put out his arms and Kit plunged forward, hands tucked into his
plaid dressing gown. He let himself be wrapped up in his father's woollen coat. "Ooh haven't
done that in a while. Miss you." Zach rubbed his son's back and enjoyed the osmotic flow of
warmth between their bodies.
"Yup, miss you too Dad," enthusiastic but not too distressed Zach thought with a tinge of
disappointment.
“I’m sorry Kit,”
“Oh well it will be Mum who’ll get angry,” Kit muttered into his jumper
“Mum?”
“The window Dad!”
“Oh, the window.”
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How could his own son be so unconcerned about this poor old father’s homeless plight. He
stopped patting his kid's back and looked down at him.
"So, how's things? You and Mum coping?"
"Sure!" Huh, why wouldn't they? What did he ever do that they'd miss so much.
"Mrs C is cooking our dinner most nights."
"Lucky you. Why the hell didn't we get Mrs C in when I was there?" He rubbed Kit's shoulders,
a bit too vigorously.
"Because you were there Dad," said Kit tilting up his head, his voice trembling with the
vibrations of Zach's renewed thumps on his back.
"Hey talking about food I brought you something," he reached into an inner pocket and pulled
out the organic chocolate bar. "Midnight snack. Bet it's all vegetables now."
"Thanks Dad," Kit held the bar in a chilly hand.
"Well go on, you can eat it."
"I've cleaned my teeth."
"True, won't kill you though."
Kit could see his father wanted him to eat the chocolate. He made an effort to wake up his
stomach, unwrapped the bar and took a nibble, "Mmm, thanks Dad. Reminds me of your
specials."
"Bet you miss those! Can't get a broccoli special can you?"
"Nope," said Kit taking another chunk. His stomach had woken up. "Guess what? Mrs C makes
chips. Cuts them up and fries them. I love them!"
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"How's your mother?" Zach responded irritably.
"She's great. The art stuff is going well, we're working on our next exhibition."
"We're working, you what? What exhibition?"
"We won at The Bank and I got a new bike then we had this thing with Oscar and loads of
people are interested. Oscar says it's like a new religion."
"What's like a new religion?" Zach's voice had gone up an octave.
"Our stillness stuff. My ripple tank homework and the shadows."
This was all beyond Zach, clearly something bizarre and ridiculous was afoot in the
contemporary art world.
"So your shadow project went to The Bank competition and won?"
"No," said Kit as if his dad was being silly. Zach breathed a little easier. "It came second and we
won loads of money and someone bought it as well and gave us more money."
"How much?" his voice was wobbling again.
"Loads, I don't know a million pounds ‘bout."
Zach nodded looking wildly round the dark garden for something solid to rest his mind on.
"Why don't you come to our next exhibition? It's really whacky. All these people sit about and go
ommmm." He laughed his still childish treble laugh.
"I don't think I fancy it," he rubbed Kit's arms and stomped his feet to stop them kicking
something hard, anything, right across the garden.
"Ouch,"
"Sorry," Zach had been crushing Kit's arm. He noticed the boy's nose was pink
and a small dribble of snot rested on his top lip. "Listen Kit I thought I might pick up some of my
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paints and stuff. Could you get me a bag and I'll sort a few things out.
"Sure,"
"Quietly now.
He followed Kit into the conservatory. Kit went on into the kitchen to find some bags. Zach
looked at all his work leaning against the walls, exactly as he had left them. His paints strewn
over the work bench, his worn out chair and his Neil Diamond CD. He felt a tear sting his eyes.
Was that longing? Self pity? Longing probably. He wanted to cuddle Layla. For a moment he
thought of creeping up the stairs and climbing into bed with her. He looked up the dark corridor,
pictured the cluttered stairs and him pushing open the bedroom door. He saw her face creased in
terror then anger. A vase came flying towards him. He left that thought. Kit returned with a large
holdall.
"Terrific that's the stuff. Shove all these paints and brushes in, I'll sort out some canvas and
things." He collected turps, sponges, pallets, blocks of paper and a roll of canvas and several
stretchers. He went to the easel to fold that up and found a sheet of cartridge with a charcoal
sketch on it. He looked back at Kit who was still collecting tubes of paint. The sketch was of a
boy, recognisably Kit. It was basic but unusual. Something very alive about the shape of the
body, not the rounded curved finish of so many drawings trying to look crumpled and realist.
Nor was his face the wall of blankness he was so fed up of seeing in portraits, always thrusting
the mundanity of life at him. Kit's face was full of expression, he had been captured in motion,
laughing, just as a camera would work, yet it was subtle, not remotely kitsch. It was wonderful.
"Finished," Kit handed over a plastic bag full of paints and brushes. Zach put them in the
holdall.
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"Ah, thanks Kit." The boy rubbed his eyes and blinked, sleep catching up with him. "Go on, off
to bed. Need a good night's sleep for school don't you."
"Hmm," Kit murmured sleepily and put his arms round his father.
"I'll lock up here. I love you so much Kit." He knelt down and held his son's face in his hands.
His cheeks were soft and cool. His eyes drooped but his mouth was curled slightly in a warm
smile.
"Wuv wu," he said through his squashed cheeks.
"Wuv wu, night then." Zach patted his back as Kit stumbled down the corridor back up to bed.
Zach zipped up his bag and was about to fold the easel. Then he remembered he had a smaller
easel tucked under the bench. He'd leave the good one for Layla. She was using it. He picked up
her sketch again and looked about for more of her work. There were a few drawings on the
bench. More shadows looking up through the conservatory roof, or across the garden. One
outline of the corner of the studio, all quite true apart from the addition of a shadow, a ghostly
figure it seemed. It was rather creepy and probably good for that. It made him shiver anyway, or
was he cold. He sat in his wicker chair and wrapped a blanket round his shoulders, still holding
the sketch of Kit. He reached for a pencil and began drawing around the boy's figure. He
sketched and rubbed, repaired and sketched. He added a layer of charcoal and smudged the lines.
It was another two hours before he put the picture back on the easel.
He picked up a piece of paper about to write a note, then tossed it aside. He packed up his bag,
dragged the small easel from under the bench and found two bottles of St Emillion premier cru.
"Ommm," he said to himself irritated and suddenly life seemed so unfair. He shoved the bottles
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roughly into his holdall. Unable to resist he nipped into the kitchen and began raiding the fridge.
He selected some good cheese and scooped that, some salad and ham into another bag. He had
£1.00 for Christ sake, Layla had just been showered in cash by the very people who had rejected
his decades of hard work.
Turning all the lights off and taking a last glimpse behind him, he stepped back out into the
chilly garden and pulled the door but just before it locked he opened it again. He had to let the
tempting thought rise to the surface and give it due consideration. He had been desperately trying
to ignore the temptation, it was probably stealing but once he pulled that door shut he wouldn't
get back in, this was his last chance. He only had a pound, £1, "Oh Christ!" he said and thumped
back into the house as if forced to do this by someone else. He tipped open the wooden egg and
pulled out the cash. £100, Mrs C was doing a whole lot more hours than before. He stuffed it into
his inside coat pocket and left. He felt angry, angry with Layla, with the art market and mostly
angry with himself.
The air cut through his lungs, fresh and clean. He breathed and exhaled all the heaviness in his
chest. He tripped down the garden path and off down the street. "The Bank of all places!" he
spat. "I knew it was all crap." He kicked a stick into the gutter. "Well if it's so crap why don't you
sell anything?" he mimicked Jerry in a sing song voice, then resuming a bass growl, "Because
I'm too bloody good for all that." A woman passed him at speed, keeping her eyes on the
pavement and clutching her coat round her bony body. "I've got principles!" he yelled back to
her. She began running.
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Zach stomped through the streets, raising sprays of water deliberately scuffing his heel through
puddles. It just wasn’t fair.
“Spare any change please?”
“Spare any change? Any bloody change?” Zach reached into his pocket and thrust a number of
five pound notes at the girl hunched in front of him.
“What the hell do you think I am?” The flapped about in the too long man’s coat she was
wearing.
“Take the money!”
“I want change not a bloody job.”
“It is change!”
“Bastard!” The girl yelled over her shoulder.
“Cretin,” Zach spat and stomped onwards.
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Adrianne sat at her desk outside her employer's office.
"Pop out and get me a croissant sweetheart," he called through his door. Adrianne could only see
his feet crossed on the desk, she craned her neck and saw him leaning back in his chair, his
fingers pinching his nose, the deep thinker. “Get it yourself asshole,” she hissed out of earshot.
She would say it louder next time though. Her plan wasn't working. This job was no more
creative than her bloody dots and she was being paid a pittance. Adrianne took her wallet and
trotted through the corridor to the lifts. On the eighth floor the head of client service joined her
and gave her a warm smile. Adrianne flicked one on her own face but failed to match the
sincerity.
This woman unnerved her slightly with her dark beauty and reputation for cleverness. "You look
pissed off,"
"Uh, oh," said Adrianne scraping the smile back onto her face.
"The woman cocked her head inquisitively and Adrianne couldn't help sharing her grist."My first
major task of the day is to pop out and buy a croissant ‘sweetheart’. I feel I was made for better
things."
"Ha, I'm sure you are." The lady laughed jovially which brought a more genuine smile onto
Adrianne's face.
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The lift pinged and opened. They continued walking through the reception together and outside
where the sharp air whipped through their shirts. Adrianne wrapped her arms round herself,
shivering, the other seemed to relish the breeze though, running her hands through her hair and
shaking out her arms. "Are you going here?" She pointed to the green canopy "I'm getting a
coffee too,"
"Doesn't someone do that for you?"
"They're doing something more useful for me. I don't pay them 20K to fetch coffee and besides I
need a quick burst of fresh air. You have an annoying boss, I have one very annoying client. And
he's coming to see me in an hour."
Twenty thousand, thought Adrianne.
"You've a big job haven't you?"
"I don't know about `big'."
"Do you have time for anything else?"
"Like what?"
"Play. Creativity?" said Adrianne thinking specifically about how she might combine an
executive and artist role in her meteoric career plans.
"Funny you should say that, I've recently found time for some painting and play, with my son
that is."
"Gosh family as well. Wonderwoman," said Adrianne heaping on the admiration.
"Not quite. Any ambitions that way?"
"What, big job, husband and child? I've got a small job, and a useless boyfriend."
"How useless?" They walked into the coffee shop. "What are you having apart from the croissant
to go? My treat."
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"Oh well thank you very much, a cappuccino please."
"Two cappuccino's and a croissant, shall we have the drinks here?"
Adrianne agreed quickly, her mind was still working out the potential executive artist balance,
she just needed to get into an executive job.
Adrianne ripped open a tube of sugar between her plum coloured lips and tipped half the
contents onto her spoon, which she plunged deep under the cappuccino foam.
"Why's your boyfriend useless?" Layla asked again.
"He can't earn a penny and he won’t sleep with me." This provoked a belt of laughter.
"Why would anyone resist you?"
"He's complicated,"
Layla nodded, taking the complicated to be euphemism for married or mad.
"I suppose he's not really my boyfriend. Anyway right now it's less of a priority than my job. I
need more money and I need something that doesn't fill me with dread, preferably something
with a future."
"Hmmm, I thought so," said Layla. The girl beside her was stunning looking and more than
averagely sharp. If she would cut to the chase and make a ballsy request then she might just give
her a new job. "I met you in Johnny's office you looked like you were enjoying your work then.
You poured me a delicious glass of Riesling."
"I remember. I'm glad I looked like I was enjoying my job, that's part of any job isn't it?”
Chirped Adrianne. Layla smiled at the truth. “Frankly it's all been a mistake. I had envisaged
being surrounded by creativity at work, but Johnny and co is not a particularly creative
environment, it's a temperamental vipers' nest and I'm just the run around. I had some ridiculous
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idea of contributing but that is definitely not in my job description. I thought I would paint part
time but I don't think that's going to happen either."
“Why?”
"Well I was introduced to an agent, the boyfriend's, he was the only one I've ever managed to see
and he apparently didn't like my work. The market is so bloody narrow-minded isn’t it?" She
stirred her coffee, then took a spoon of foam and tipped it into her mouth meditatively.
"A market is a market. It meets the customer needs, even in art. No point in writing like
Shakespeare in the 20th Century, that is unless you’re bloody brilliant, then it doesn’t matter a
damn about the market.” Layla voiced an opinion she’d long held about Zach’s work.
"I wasn't exactly a metaphorical Shakespeare, more a…" Adrianne lost the energy to talk about
her work, which was a moment of self-realisation in itself. "Actually I think I rather like the
sound of your end of the job. I like to be rushed, I can handle awkward people like that bunch of
creatives and I dare say your annoying clients. I just want to do more than buy their croissants.
How would I go about a change?"
"Excellent question." So she had asked, thought Layla pleased. "Well this particular difficult
client who I am about to meet does need a lot of caretaking. He is worth it though, business wise
that is. I'll be there for the strategic stuff but I need someone in the firing line. He's lascivious,
pushy, egocentric and impatient. Do you think you could handle him?"
"No problem," she batted her eyelids. "If you teach me how to graduate to the strategic stuff."
"Of course. Most of our business demands something with more substance. Mr Carynopolis
though he's in a class of his own. I think you could handle him without being bullied."
"I've no doubt I can. Actually I much prefer to bully," Adrianne glinted. "Then I'd learn the ropes
and my salary would go up?"
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"Salary?" Layla grinned, "Of course!"
"Welcome to client service then Adrianne. Why don't you join me for the meeting in an hour.
Come up to my office first and I'll show you the work.”
*****
Zach was already up, dressed and active when Adrianne tripped down the basement stairs.
"Wow transformed!" She exclaimed from the bottom step one hand on her hip, scrutinising the
room. It was clean, tidy, cobweb free. The light was pouring through the windows, windows that
she couldn't even recollect being there. "Have you had decorators in?"
"Nope, a good Hoover round. Bit of soap and water. Some fresh air." Zach was in the middle of
preparing a canvas. He whipped a tape measure from round his shoulders and measured the
diagonals of the stretcher. Satisfied he made a quick charcoal mark then pulled out a Stanley
knife from his pocket and slid it open.
"I shouldn't keep that in your trousers," said Adrianne rather fascinated by the unexpected craft
demonstration.
Zach scoured a line through the canvas and brushed away a few threads
"And you've got your paints?" Adrianne said, an uncertainty in her voice.
"Yup, been home to get them." He folded an edge of canvas over the frame and ran a staple gun
up the side.
"Not tempted to stay there then?"
"Not when I can be part of this creative hub," Zach grinned and raised one satirical eyebrow.
Adrianne shrugged agreement. She moved to the table by the window and began examining the
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brushes.
"Well sorry to disillusion you but I'm moving on, out of art," she dusted her nails on each hand,
as if her news of was of little importance. "I've got a new job."
"Oh yes,"
"A proper job,"
"Great," Zach continued stapling the sides of the canvas. He flipped her a wry smile to suggest
he'd hang in there anyway.
Adrianne felt unaccountably offended at his quick acceptance of her move. He hadn’t
challenged, either as a sellout, which she’d feared, or a protest over wasted talent which she’d
have liked. She watched him work, then slowly she realised he was a craftsman and she, well she
was probably what he always knew she was.
The canvas was stretched, he spun the frame on its corner and flicked the centre to test its
tautness.
"So I've got a new job," she would at least wring out some enthusiasm for her great step.
"So I heard, congratulations." Zach stood up seeing something was expected by way of
comment. "You don't hang about,"
"Can't bear people who hang about. I mean that lot upstairs, moan about money, lack of success
either seize it or change. I'm changing. I am an executive and have doubled my salary." She
swung a new handbag by her hips.
"Good for you," he walked over, held her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. He was feeling
pretty buoyant himself with a clean canvas to start on. He dropped her shoulders almost
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unbalancing Adrianne who had turned up her mouth.
"Not now sweetie," Zach said.
"Zach, you must have the lowest sex drive in a man I've ever met."
"Seems to me you’ve never heard the word no?”
"Ha ha!" She put a slow sarcasm into the words.
He plumped a bunch of brushes in a jar and began dragging a decrepit plastic table over to the
window.
“Breakfast?”
“Later, later,” Zach said, now fully intent on his work.
Adrianne left, mildly irritated. She dusted her hands on her skirt as she walked up the stairs,
reminding herself that the basement was still a hole and he was welcome to it.
*****
After a relaxed dinner Layla poured herself a glass of wine and went into the studio. She liked
sitting in the wicker chair under the glass roof, watching the light fade, or if later, looking out for
the faint glow where the stars would appear if the city didn't outshine them. She tipped her head
back, the clouds puffed across the sky, so relaxing. Layla picked up a sketch-pad and pencil and
began making lazy outlines of the clouds. Her burning ambition to be a professional artist had
faded with her new insight to the business-side of art however she loved having the time to draw
for the sheer pleasure. It was therapeutic, doing something purely for pleasure.
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She dropped the pad and leant over for her sketch of Kit, she had an idea for the background. But
the moment she looked at it all sense of satisfaction dissolved like oil under white spirits. She
jumped in her seat and looked about her as if Zach might be in the room. She examined the
picture closely, incredulous and slightly unnerved. This really was the Kit she had drawn but the
rest of the picture had either grown on its own or Zach, for surely it could only have been Zach,
had drawn the rest. It was Zach, of course. He must have visited last night. Kit hadn't said
anything, but then between the two minute breakfast and his leaving for school there hadn't been
much time.
Having settled on a rational answer to the sketch's evolution Layla looked closer at the picture. It
hadn't occurred to her to finish it like this. She was going to put a map of space behind Kit,
something he was interested in. Here he was though enveloped by his mother and father. She was
sitting on the arm of the chair, her arm round Kit's shoulders, her hair falling casually down her
arm revealing a most flattering neckline. She automatically touched her neck, stroking the back
of her fingers up towards her chin. The artist thought she was beautiful, that was clear, that was
the talent of it. Whatever shape or size she was he had drawn her with beauty. The other side of
Kit was Zach, scrunched into the chair, he was unexpected or uninvited, his legs were necessarily
crossed because of the space but it also gave the impression of self protection. One arm stretched
behind Kit and was touching Layla's hair, just his finger tips, a gentle contact. Layla was
particularly captured in motion, as if she had just flung herself onto the chair, he was still and
pensive. His face was not turned towards the painter but towards the two of them. He had a small
smile on his lips that you could just discern but the most sensitive emotion was in his eyes.
Devotion a little sadness maybe. Her eye naturally followed the arc from the height of her head
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past Kit to Zach's lap. There was his message. His mobile phone was held loosely in the palm of
his hand.
Carefully crafted, emotional, allegorical. The picture was streaks ahead of his more recent
rubbish. More beautiful than most she had recently seen, all those concepts, so clever, so chilly.
Nothing seemed to have the simplicity and emotion of this picture, nothing for her of course.
Perhaps her taste was old fashioned. She held it up to the light, really it was a skilled piece of
craft, anyone could recognise that. Now she felt angry with him because he'd ruined everything
and she couldn't just ring him up and say, `hey great picture'.
At that second her phone rang, her hand jolted and her knuckles hit the edge of the easel.
Shaking the pain off her hand she picked up the phone then recognised the number as Zach's
mobile and cut the line off, irritably blowing cooling breath onto her grazed skin.
Zach meanwhile was still trying to figure out how he was placed emotionally and more
importantly how should he sound; angry, apologetic, resentful, jolly? And how restrained should
he be? The line went dead. "Christ!" he tossed it onto the bed. After a minute it burst into life
buzzing, he dived onto it staring at the screen, it was Layla. Spontaneous elation ran through
him, he felt so happy, it was all going to be all right and he loved her.
"Layla!" he was incapable of restraining the delight in his voice. "You called!"
"No, you called.” Did she sound cool, or was that hesitant? She was probably as confused as
him!
"Yes, yes, I just called, just that minute." She said nothing. "Did you find my picture? I mean
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your picture?" Zach asked, he felt his own silly big grin stretching his face.
"Yup. Your picture of Kit was very good. It inspired me. In fact I’d have to say you inspire me."
Love brimmed up inside him. If he were a mouse he knew he'd be scrambling up that vertical
table leg with the cheese in sight. It had been a hard journey, but finally he was coming in from
the cold.
"Darling,"
"Just watching you do all that painting made me want to stop working all day and night and join
in." Ah, Zach's shoulders crumpled a little. Still a little testy Zach recognised.
He heard Layla take a deep breath, as if bored and wondering what to say.
"Things aren't too bad." He volunteered, as if she'd asked. "It was `too bad' but things are looking
up," he cast his eyes round the spruce basement and enticingly white canvas. "I'm going to start
work today."
"Don't tell me you've got a job!" She was so sarcastic he couldn't understand why she'd called
him back.
"No, well yes that as well. Apparently I'm not much sought after on the commercial job market,
there is something though. Actually I was talking more about painting."
His phone began to beep, he was about to run out of battery. He looked about for the charger and
realised Layla was nearer the charger than him, it was in the kitchen drawer.
"Something? And what’s the something?" Layla sounded curious.
"What?"
"The job I mean, what is it? I bet it’s a revelation to you. Work, money and all that," she
chuckled. God he loved that chuckle.
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"The job, well it’s, forget the job. Look Layla you and Kit…" his voice sounded unexpectedly
throaty.
"Zach you know you can see Kit any time," she said in a business like tone, "it's just me who
doesn't want to see you."
"No, of course not. I need some time out here. It's good for me," he said sounding brave but not
sure why those words had come to mind. It wasn't good for him, he was unhappy. The phone
beeped again and Zach felt like his picture was fading in the family polaroid. What did he want
to say to her? But grief, she just sounded so irritable. The beeping increased.
"I love you Layla," he gasped but he realised too late. The battery had died. "I adore you," he
whispered to the phone.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
At ten, Zach had been in his studio working for five hours. He had to be at his appointment by
11, he should get cleaned up. He was just putting things away when he heard someone at the top
of the stairs. He walked across and peered up,
"Mind if I take a look? I hear you've made some improvements down there," Brown was
hovering at the top of the stairs.
"Come on down." Zach liked Brown the best of all his housemates; easily the most amiable of
the group. He was pleased to be sought out by Brown.
"Hey very chic. You've made yourself a nice wee studio. God knows why noon of us lot had the
imagination," Brown stared in astonishment at the light flooding through the glass roof. I dinnae
even know we had windows doon here."
"They were concealed," Zach admitted tossing charcoal into a tin and wiping his hands on his
jeans.
Brown looked at the start of Zach's picture. It was the outline of a woman lying on a bed.
"You're pretty talented,"
Zach clicked his tongue as if to say for all the good it's done him. Remembering he'd done
enough self-pity the past weeks he pulled on a smile, "I liked the look of your work too. The
photographs are interesting and that painting up in your room."
"Nice of you to say. But actually hav'nae a clue what I'm doing. Need to learn, go to art school or
something, but I'm a bit caught up at the moment. Need the money from the lab and that takes up
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me time."
"Couldn't you do that part time? Then some art school? It's not expensive living here is it?" Zach
leant against the table and crossed his legs. He patted down his shirt pockets looking for
cigarettes.
"Sure, sounds good but I've got outgoings," he waved abstractedly leaving Zach's imagination to
trundle along. Drugs? An illegitimate child somewhere?
"I am vastly impressed," Brown looked about the room, he had spoken with warmth. He tapped
his head as if taking his cap off to Zach for both the transformation of the room and then his
work. Generous soul thought Zach as Brown headed up the stairs.
"Hey Brown," Brown turned about. "I went to art school," Zach stuffed his fingers into his jeans.
"I don't know if I can teach you anything but if you want to join me for a few uh, sessions, feel
free." He shrugged. Brown looked immediately interested. "It's a big room," Zach added. Indeed
the basement was the size of the whole house floor.
"Think you could give me some tips?"
"Sure," Zach shrugged, "tips, anything I know. We'll work together and I'll," he gestured
vaguely, "give you input."
A smooth wide smile spread across Brown's face. "Well it sounds great," he glanced at Zach's
canvas. I wounnae be in your way?"
"Not at all. It's as much your house as mine isn't it?"
"Oh aye, I forgot. This is a commune!" They both laughed, "`later."
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Zach took a last lingering look at the beginnings of his new picture and felt a wave of
satisfaction. He swung his jacket over his shoulder and followed Brown up the stairs.
*****
He was walking down the street looking for the offices of ‘Giving’. Evening Standard headlines
flashed at him endlessly, Fireman Saves Three Young Lives – when would he ever save a life!
Fireman Saves Three Young Lives – When would he ever change a life? Zach felt suddenly
unworthy. A very unnatural feeling for him.
Number 33 Woods Lane was wedged between a Snappy Snaps and a pizza shop, the latter gave
out an overpowering smell of sour yeast and processed tomato sauce. He pushed open the glass
door with a vertical crack through it and tripped up the worn linoleum clad staircase gradually
slowing down as he reached the fourth floor.
The offices of `Giving' had a newish grey carpet and were painted a clean white but the walls
were mostly covered in charts and calendars. Two or three desks were occupied by particularly
young people with amazingly broad smiles. A collection of the university, rock climbing, beer
type and the ring in the navel, trousers-off-the-hips variety. They all exuded health and energy,
they also seemed to be enjoying their work chatting animatedly about `hot and cold prospects'.
This was all very hopeful, thought Zach who remembered work as something most students
didn't want to do. One chap broke off his chat and leant back in his chair
"Hi, how can I help you?" He looked so pleased to see Zach.
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"I'm here to see Peter Doolan,"
"Interview?" asked the young man.
"Yes," said Zach surprising himself. He hadn't thought about it, but that was indeed what he was
there for; to be quizzed and judged suitable or otherwise for a job. He realised he hadn't been
interviewed for anything since his newspaper round and that was not so recent. Before his long
dormant nerves could rattle to life, a tall clean-man in tight denims and an open shirt stepped out
of an office in the corner.
"Zach Elliot? Come in," he said, scanning a form in a file. Zach's heart shrivelled a little to think
his talents might be reduced to a few words on a file and less than one side of paper it appeared.
Awful, a form. How could his free ranging spirit, his philosophy, his talents all be summarised in
a form? Zach followed the man into his office feeling empty and a quarter his age. So this was
the smart smoothy who kept all the chaps in the office happy.
"Peter Doolan," he held out a hand and gave another broad cheery smile. Now he was seated
opposite his interviewer, Zach realised the man's own youth. Peter may be a smart Alec but Zach
was older, wiser, surely? This was not a life threatening situation, he just needed a bit of money,
so he needed this job. Be wise, he told himself. He turned up his eyes in a sort of amenable
response and told himself he wouldn't leave until he was employed.
"So you are interested in working for Giving."
"Very much so," said Zach deciding a super positive approach was the suitable tone even though
he had always treated `Giving' employees, that had tried to wring a standing order out of him
once a week for the past two years, as street clutter.
"Why?" Peter folded his hands neatly on the desk in front of him. Zach noticed that the
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atmosphere outside was active and full of paper, in here it was simple, clear and quiet. Peter was
the boss. He feared he would never be ordered enough to be `the boss'.
Zach rummaged through his mind for something more persuasive than it being the only job for
which he was qualified, "We have some mutual interests," he began, "I would therefore be
motivated and I like the sound of your operation."
"Mutual interests," Peter repeated distantly. "You've heard of Giving before have you?"
"Of course," Zach said assuredly.
"Basically we are looking for optimistic, positive minded recruits who will be able to bring out
the best in complete strangers." Zach knew it. "Most people you will be approaching will be
busy, jaded, fed up and you have to turn that all around and get them to fill in a form committing
them to some ongoing charitable contribution."
If he didn't get this job at the very least he deserved a part in East Enders. Actually Tom, one of
his old neighbours was a TV producer, perhaps he should look him up. What skill was there to
being an extra? A passer-by in the market or someone haggling over a crate of tomatoes. He
could talk on screen if they wanted but he would be happy turning up, walking by and having the
free lunch by those reputedly gourmet caterers.
"Have you?" Peter was asking.
In that extraordinary way the brain functions Zach tuned into his parallel receptors that had been
listening to Peter whilst he planned his acting debut and back tracked on the question he
apparently hadn't heard.
"Ah, have I done anything like this before?" he repeated to be absolutely certain he had back
tracked accurately.
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"Hmm?" Peter tapped the pencil on the desk, a little impatiently. Zach looked pensive, then
shook his head.
"Nothing similar?" Zach made a slow swerving non-committal shrug as if to suggest he had done
vaguely similar work before, rather than he hadn't ever had a job before. Defeat was looming but
then he looked at the young fresh besuited individual in front of him and thought this green punk
cannot have the power to turn me down for the only job I'm qualified for.
"Tibet," Zach said suddenly.
"Ah yes, you spent some years in Tibet, I expect that was interesting," Peter continued to play
with the pencil, one finger balanced carefully on the top, the lead pressed into his desk pad.
"Yes I was there for three years, I understand charity," Zach said leaving the non-sequitor to
speak for itself.
"Charity?" Peter's face softened.
“I understand um, the way it can soften, a um prospect," declared Zach, going for broke.
"Good! Good," Peter said encouragingly, pleased but obviously needing something more from
Zach.
"Charity can melt even the most jaded," he gave Peter a clear face of mutual understanding.
"Correct," it was a verbal tick mark.
Then Peter Doolan's phone rang. For the next five minutes Peter smiled weakly down the phone
as an apparently dissatisfied individual ranted from the other end. Zach tried to use the time to
construct some fiction. He helped refugees? He had joined the world health organisation.
"Yes, so what did you do in Tibet?" Zach had hoped the subject had passed but Peter had
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suddenly put the phone down and switched back to where he'd left off. None of Zach's friends
could do that. Another reminder why Peter was the boss.
"I sold rugs," there was no immediate response in his interviewer, "and painted,” Zach added, not
sure which would be more impressive.
"Sold rugs? You've sales experience then?"
"Certainly, that's what I'm doing here." Zach seized on the positive. "People aren't walking down
the street waiting to sign my form, I realise that. This is a sales job."
"Exactly!" Peter looked relieved to have finally got to the point.
"Great," the boss rose from his chair, a sign for Zach to leave. "Please ask Marion to book you
onto a course and take all the necessary details. Nice to meet you." Peter had already sat down
and was on the phone, before Zach had left his office, telling someone off in a terse voice for the
phone call he had just received.
Zach stood at the door feeling like a champion, beaming he asked who might Marion be.
"That's me," trilled a young girl with a Rastafarian hat perched jauntily on her pretty head. Soft
brown tangles of hair covered her shoulders and a sweet smile lit up her face.
"So you need a course," she sang and flicked through her diary. "Have a seat whilst I book you
in. We've all been on the courses, they're great, you'll love it."
Zach was to attend a two day training course starting on Monday. The first day would arm him
for the streets. He would learn the best way to approach a stranger, how to take the rebuff or
abuse. The important things to remember, like someone might have just been punched by their
girlfriend or have just tripped up, two minutes before you bounce out with your big wholesome
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smile. The second days training would indoctrinate him in the details of the two charities he
would be representing, so he could talk with complete confidence about the benefits of their
work and where the money would be going. "And the overall objective is to instill the company
ethos in you." Marion finished breathily.
"What, like the love of charity doesn't come naturally?" The girl responded with a weak laugh.
"Well sign me up for my injection of enthusiasm." Zach looked round the office and it seemed
all the faces were turned towards him with their individual positive grins.
"We hate pessimists and cynics. It's not clever."
"No, quite," agreed Zach quickly.
Zach left an employed man. A novel experience. What was all the fuss about? It had taken
fifteen minutes in the agency and another ten minutes with the employer. And after his two days
training he would start immediately and pick up a pay packet at the end of the week of £120, the
next week it would be the full £200. He calculated how much he needed, £20 for the week's food
and £20 for bills. A few bottles of wine, that would be £30, he enjoyed good wine, say £10 for
travel expenses if he took buses, £10 for chocolate for himself and Kit. Frankly he didn't know
what to do with all the money.
Zach reached the commune and took himself straight down to his studio, still making his
calculations. He decided he would just have to go out and spend the rest in some bar. Why did
Layla make such a big deal about her work? Even when she finished she came home with a head
full of worries about the office. Why on earth did she feel the need for such long hours?
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He picked up his canvas and held it to the light, then replaced it on the easel and turned that
fractionally to catch a different light. He resumed his drawing. Soon his mind was absorbed in
the soft strokes of the charcoal bringing the image in his mind to the tips of his fingers which
translated them onto the canvas. It was like magic in a way, effortless. He had such a clear
picture in his head it was almost as if he had to touch the canvas with the charcoal for it simply
to materialise before him. He worked methodically for hours, oblivious to his surroundings,
singularly aware of the woman in his head. He could hear her chuckle, he could see how she had
just landed on the bed and the way she stretched her neck to look up at him. The fall of the sheets
as her body puffed into the mattress. The way her foot kicked up and how her knee bent. He
could see the whole movement, if necessary he could step back further, ten seconds, ten minutes,
hours and say what she had been doing, how she had spoken, what she had eaten. All of that
seemed to channel through his hands, into the charcoal and onto the canvas. As he drew her face
and her open mouth he found himself smiling back at her.
He heard the step creak and turned round. Brown was sitting on the bottom step watching him.
"I di’nae want to disturb you. You were in some trance." Brown stood up and moved towards
him pointing at the canvas.
Zach quickly rubbed his damp eyes with the back of a hand and shook his head. He supposed it
must have seemed like a trance, although that wasn't quite what he would call it.
"Just concentrating,"
"And how. Ach, could you teach me to do that?" Brown pointed to the canvas clearly impressed
"I can teach you many things. The thing is, if you find something you really want to say you say
it. Nothing can stop you." Zach picked up his cigarettes and offered the pack to Brown who
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declined, then tapped one out and lit it. Taking a long draw he mentally added cigarettes to his
weekly out goings, that took up a chunk.
"So do you always have something to say?"
"Yes," said Zach glancing at his watch. He had been drawing for five hours. He hadn't stopped
for food or a smoke. He hadn't walked out to buy a new gadget or thought of Ms Consuela. He
didn't have a stereo and hadn't fooled about with music. "Well usually," he added with less force.
"But not always is it so," he waved a hand at the canvas. "So I suppose you are taking me up on
my offer,"
"Only if you really feel like it, seriously you looked so intent. I widnae like to interrupt you."
"I'm pleased I have something to teach," he was really pleasantly surprised to discover the fact.
"What sort of surface do you favour?"
"What do I paint on like? I have pads," he walked back to the stairs and collected a pad from the
third step. "It's specially prepared oil paper,"
"Yes, know the stuff. I'll teach you to stretch and prime your own canvas, that's all part of the
fun. The craft. You know what this is?" Zach picked up a charcoal.
"Charcoal," Brown laughed.
"Use it then," Zach tossed it over. "It's soft, fluid, it only goes where your mind goes. You hold it
gently or it will crack, this gives you a flowing line. I always do an underdrawing. The paints, the
mixing of colours is an art in itself. He pointed to a tube of blue paint and a tube of yellow. "Mix
those and what do you get?"
"Green," Brown said assured.
"Which green though? There are infinite shades of yellowy, blue browny greens. Does the blue
lean more towards the violet or green or the yellow towards orange or green. These subtle
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differences will enrich your painting. We are working in colour and the colours are important; as
much part of the composition as the thing in here. Bit like choosing the words for a story." He
tapped his head.
"I've always copied my images actually," said Brown.
"As you like. If you see something you want to paint then fine. Nothing wrong in that. But
ultimately it's in here. You see it, you think it and then it comes from your mind to the canvas.
Two people can draw a girl or a field from the same angle, but it's not a photograph we're doing
here. We see things through the miasma of our predispositions. Do we like fields? Do we get
hayfever. Is it one flower that dominates our vision or the sky above. Is the girl threatening to us,
she reminds us of our mother, you hated your mother and so on. Whether you're copying or not,
it is all from the mind." Zach was animated and squeezing paints out onto a pallet. Six generous
blobs. "Choose a brush," Brown looked at the range, not wishing to select an expensive brush.
He picked up a smaller brush, "Ah the Bright. Good for applying thicker mixtures of paint in
small brush strokes. It's like golf, a special stick for each shot. Now let's get mixing. Just play
with the colours, find their nuances. See what mood they create."
Brown eyed the pallet like a feast of expensive and delicate chocolates. An hour later he was still
delving into the pallet with the same greedy eyes enjoying the smudges and strokes in a hundred
shades on the two sheets in front of him. He only paused when Adrianne broke into their silence.
"Hey chaps, where's my dinner date?" Adrianne leant on the balustrade swinging her long green
cardigan about her knees.
"Ah the executive returns," Zach wiped his hands on a cloth. "Have a nice day at the office?"
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"Yes darling," she blew him a kiss. "Claude has served dinner. We don't want him to lose his
temper now?"
Zach nodded to Brown that they should go. Brown glanced at his brushes and cloths.
"It's very important to clean your brushes thoroughly after each session. They're tools of the
craft. But frankly losing a few sables versus Claude's rage," Zach tossed the brushes into a jar of
clear liquid and pressed Brown toward the stairs.
Dinner was worth running for. Claude never showed any pleasure in his creations but they were
imaginative and always delicious. Zach appreciated the challenges of the kitchen since his solid
stew effort. Sasha dipped a ladle in the pot on the table and served Claude's spaghetti arrabiatta
around the table.
"Smells delicieux Claude," ventured Zach.
"Really," Claude slumped into a chair and crossed one black booted foot over a knee almost
kicking Zach's leg. Zach couldn't care less today. He was an employed man and he had a vision
he was putting onto canvas. There were not enough hours in the day.
"When are you off to the Biennale Bin?" asked Sasha.
"Dunno," Bin shuffled over his plate.
"Well if you're going won't you be leaving the day before it starts or on the day? You must have
some idea?" Sasha looked at him revealing her true exasperation with her slow housemate. Zach
noticed Brown catch her eye and shake his head.
"How many greens do you think I made today?" Brown asked.
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"Greens? What on earth are you talking about?" Adrianne said picking her teeth elegantly. "I'll
tell you what I made today. Two hundred bloody photocopies. But having doubled my salary am
I bothered? Plus I was taken to San Navarros for lunch, which made it doubly worthwhile. Muy
deliciosa." She said sensuously forking pasta into her mouth.
"Well ya sucks. I had a pork pie on the third floor of an empty warehouse," Sasha curled up her
top lip.
"How many greens?" Bin asked slowly. Adrianne looked at Bin with a renewed incredulity. "I'm
asking him how many greens he made. He said he made greens,"
"I know," Adrianne waved a desperate hand. Bin stared at his severed digit.
"Fifteen greens. And you know what? I only really liked three of them. I learnt something today.
I love green but I now ken I've been using the wrong one! It's fantastic," he pointed a fork at
Zach. "This chapee knows his stuff.”
"We all do," said Sasha defending the commune. "Everyone paints, in their own way."
"Please yerself Sasha but I nay went to art school and I learnt more today than I ever have stuck
up in that room on me tod with a brush."
"I never went to art school," said Bin eyeing his rubbish on the walls.
"You have some grand inspiration laddee," said Brown encouraging him. "Although after today
I'd say going back to basics is not a bad idea for any aspiring artist." He coiled pasta onto his fork
and chomped at it.
Claude scraped the last sauce off his plate with a lump of bread and before he'd swallowed that,
lit up a cigarette bringing a cloud over the table. After dinner everyone stood up heading for their
evening lounge about upstairs.
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Zach looked at the plates scattered across the table and the smatterings of red sauce. Sasha's hand
was on the door already.
"How about I gather the plates and put them in the sink and someone else washes up and then
someone else dries and puts away?" The first face he saw was Claude's who looked like he was
about to hit him. "Not Claude of course, he has just cooked us all that fine dinner."
Sasha folded her arms and rolled her eyes like a school girl being told off. Adrianne stepped
forward and put a hand on his shoulder supportively seeing the barrage coming.
"Really we're not interested in your bourgeois concepts of cleanliness or a bloody rota," Sasha
growled then flung open the door and left.
Zach called after them, "It's not bourgeois to share the work. It's a bloody socialist precept. I'm
the first to volunteer. We don't want to live like pigs!"
"Who says!" Sasha shouted back. Then poked her head back and yelled, "This isn't your middle
class cul de sac with white furry carpets."
"Ugly pig," hissed Adrianne, flicking her beautiful hair.
"I'll wash," Bin said. Zach gave him a hugely grateful smile and turned to gather the plates.
"I'll dry then," said Brown picking up a drab cloth from the cooker handle.
"I'll go and do my nails then," said Adrianne and waltzed out.
Bin handed Brown a wet plate. "Rinse off the soap Bin, or you'll poison us." Bin returned the
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plate to the sink and rinsed it well. "Mind you they probably need another good wash after I've
smeared this cloth all over them." Brown wrinkled his nose at the stained rag in his hand. "Yuk!
Mind that piece of spaghetti," Brown pointed to some stuck to the back of the next plate.
"Thanks Brown, I ‘ate finding dried food on the plates."
The two of them were suddenly like a couple of old fusspots at the kitchen sink, all domestic and
considerate. A warm feeling crept over Zach in this little scene, he felt he had made a difference.
A novel and strangely gratifying sensation. He wiped down the table and then urged on by some
primeval need for cleanliness picked up a broom and swept the floor.
"That hasn't been done in a while," said Brown. "More food on the floor than the shelves."
"That's why that rat likes it here," said Bin scrubbing at the saucepan with earnest thoroughness.
"What rat?" Brown asked. Zach looked nervously about the kitchen.
"That one," Bin jerked his head back to the diagonal corner.
Brown and Zach flipped their heads round and backed up a few steps.
"For Christ's sake Bin, how long have ye seen him aboot?" squawked Brown.
"He's pretty comfortable isn't he," Zach eyed the creature who eyed them back, apparently
without any intention of vacating his spot.
"That's disgusting, he's full of germs. He's a bloody hazard," wailed Brown.
Zach agreed and involuntarily scratched under his arms investigating for black boils. Both he and
Brown were rooted to the spot under the rat's beady glare. "Do they attack?"
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"If cornered," Zach said ominously acknowledging the creature's corner position.
"He's only a rat," said Bin, putting the pot onto the draining board baffled by their response. "I've
seen loads of rats."
"Well I haven't."
"That was unique to your line of work," pointed out Brown.
Suddenly the door opened, swinging against the fridge. The three men shot a glance at the door,
it was Sasha. They turned back to the rat but in that split second he'd disappeared.
"Oh worse," intoned Brown. "We know he's here but don't know where he lives."
"Who? There's enough dossers in this house." Sasha walked into the kitchen, very near where the
rat had been. She reached to collect some glasses. It’s nose reappeared from behind a pile of
plastic carrier bags right by her foot. Brown and Zach gaped and pointed. “What?” she mimicked
their stares, giving a fair impression of a gormless idiot. The rat made a dash for the next corner,
scampering over Sasha’s shoe. Zach, Brown and even Bin leant back involuntarily and held
their breath. She shook her foot and looked down but as she couldn’t see anything kicked the
plastic bags, then shrugged at the three stooges and stomped out with her glasses. The rat had
disappeared again. Brown and Zach stood for a moment mesmerized by the space it had been in,
then snapping out of their freeze they set about the cleaning in a big rush.
"I'm off," Brown said as soon as he handed the last plate to Zach for him to put away. "Lock
yourrr doors," he warned in an eerie Scottish burr.
Indeed Zach wanted to lock himself into his room but he now had a different problem. He was
desperate to go to the loo. He had managed to avoid any seated evacuations in the privy. Since
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availing himself at Jerry's he had been ducking into offices or pubs he passed with elaborate
shows of looking for his mates and checking his watch. But now the need was urgent and never
before was the loo less enticing. If it wasn't some unseen creature lurking in its filthy pipework it
was that rat that he had seen. A real and present danger. It was big and strong and pestilent. He
did not want the plague on his bum. Already though he was in a clenched buttock situation. It
had to be the pub across the road. He couldn't afford a beer but if he dashed in he might be able
to make it through without feeling obliged to purchase; if it were crowded enough he could look
like he'd just put his beer down on the table outside next to his five mates.
"Erm Zach, I wanted to ask you something," Bin mumbled with his habitual lack of confidence.
"Hang on Bin, I'll be back," he said edging towards the door.
"No, it's just, well," Zach was torn; Bin had obviously worked himself up to this moment, it was
almost cruel to leave him.
"What!" he said with unintended sharpness which sent Bin into a nervous paralysis and further
delay. Zach tried to say `what' again in a more patient tone, but couldn't, he was going to pop.
"I've just got to get something," he mumbled and ran for the kitchen door and out the front door.
"I'll get it for you. What is it?" Bin was lumbering after him. The additional requirement of
escape added an almost unbearable stress. Zach stopped, crossed his legs, took shallow breaths
that wouldn't move his muscles too much, "Bin I'll be back in two minutes, I'm just getting some
cigarettes from the pub." His face was burning with the effort surely Bin could see the urgency.
He fled through the door.
"Oh right," Bin said slowly following Zach. "You see I wanted to talk to you about painting."
A bead of sweat rolled off Zach's forehead. He hobbled forward, the pub was in sight and that
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was the only thing he could think about. Bin loped along beside him, his slow huge strides
keeping apace with Zach's hurried hobble. But as Bin swayed from side to side he would knock
Zach's shoulder bringing on more pressure.
"I started being an artist, doing my art stuff," he corrected himself, "without thinking about it.
You know, just happened. Do you know what I mean?"
"Yep," Zach squeaked counting the steps to relief.
"I didn't expect anything. Then I met this crowd. Sasha, Brown," Bin seemed to have run out of
explanation or even a train of thought; he said nothing more. Zach grunted and held back the
tears. He crossed the road without looking, he didn't care if he was run over, that was preferable
to the extreme discomfort he was in right now. Suddenly Bin grasped his arm and stopped him in
the middle of the road. "I want to learn to paint properly!" Zach tried to shake his arm free, his
eyes fixed on his destination, persuading his bowels that they could and would hold on. Bin
gripped his arms tighter. "Will you teach me? I dunno if I can paint, I've never painted. I've just
stuck things onto wood. It's just an idea. I've seen paintings. I was going to the Venice Bienale.
I've been to other exhibitions," Zach shook his arms free, the effort juddered through his body;
an accident waiting to happen.
"Get off, Bin please I've got to go,"
"But will you teach me?" he pleaded. Zach began to run. It was awkward, the speed accelerated
progress in every way. He piled into the pub, the door slammed against the wall and echoed in
the silent interior. It was deserted apart from the two men stood behind the bar. Each had short
cropped dark hair. One was tall and lean the other tall and wide. Zach thought of asking to use
the loo, or ordering a pint and dashing on to the loo but there was no time for either. Bin crashed
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through the door after him, smashing it against the wall a second time. "Why yes to Brown and
no to me?" Bin wailed and Zach darted to the gents. Bin's voice pursued him. "Don't you like me
or something?"
Zach swept on through into a stall, undoing his belt the moment he set sights on a stall. He made
it; the relief, the flood of wellbeing. He wiped the tears from his eyes and felt an enormous swell
of happiness, well being and good will to everyone. Someone hammered on his cubicle door.
Good grief, Bin was persistent. "Just hold your horses, I'll be out in one minute." Then with
another surge of good will towards the plainly insecure flat mate he added, "I do like you, you
daft bugger! It's a great idea. Let's do it." All of which would have delighted Bin and indeed
made sense to Bin but it wasn't Bin.
"You filthy bugger. Get outta `ere."
Zach had finished. He zipped himself up and came out with an apologetic face. "Steady on. I'm
sorry, I was just desperate."
"Twisted pervert. We don't all pull our trousers down the minute we feel the urge. Get out of
here. I'm calling the police."
"Look, this is a bit severe. Okay it was a cheeky…"
"Get out you perve!" he yelled.
Zach backed out of the loos into the pub. Bin was frozen at the door being harangued by the
other man behind the bar. "If you don't shift your queer ass out of here I'm calling the police! Get
out, go on!"
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Zach took Bin's arm and pushed him out of the door. Should he even try to explain what had just
happened? Bin was pointing at the enraged bar tenders and gaping. "Come on Bin," Zach urged
with gritted teeth, shoving the huge figure down the street.
"But what's their problem?"
"Don't ask, just get a move on."
"I don't understand,"
"I know!"
They were back in the house, door closed safely behind them. Bin looked put out but in Zach's
current state of lightness even the lunatic bar staff couldn't dampen his humour.
"So Bin, sorry, I was in a rush." He sat on the table and rested his feet on a chair. His elbows on
his knees, all ready to listen. "Tell me then, you want to learn to paint?"
Bin nodded, fear of rejection fixed all over his face. "I don't know if I'm much good or if I can
with my missing finger,” he examined his maimed hand as if it were part of someone else.
"Well there’s always a challenge, think of the paralympics.” He patted Bin on the back,
“Everyone gets better with lessons. Join Brown and me tomorrow. We'll be starting first thing.
Got any materials?" Bin looked apprehensive. "I've materials. Just come in when you want. We'll
make a start." Bin's puffy lips spread and sat like two happy hot dogs across his mouth.
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CHAPTER FIFTEEN
"Daarling, Lay La, I have such good news. Soo exciting!"
Layla laughed to herself, Oscar was such a dramatist but better that than the disdain or morbidity
she found in the usual habitué of the artworld. Her new account handler dropped a fresh bound
document in front of her and waved five varnished nails. She was off to deal with Mr
Carynopolis. Now that was good news. Adrianne receded down the corridor, a shimmering of
red hair and emerald green silk, attractive and fashionable, Mr Carynopolis just loved her. She
was also extremely efficient, so Layla loved her too.
"I'm serious," cooed Oscar. This is the best news I've heard in ages. It takes art into new realms.
In fact just where we have always been heading. Patrick DeKlerk is one of the foremost
contemporary philosophers you know. He's got his own radio programme, published all over the
place. Anyway he wants us to meet on Wednesday. Any chance Anonymous would like to join
us?" he sang out tentatively.
"I don't think so," said Layla even managing a frown of deep regret for Oscar down the phone.
“No, right oh, shame.”
She had got used to her deception, and kept her story simple. Anonymous simply wasn't
convinced of his identity and she had no idea when he would be. Besides she knew Oscar
actually preferred the Anonymous element, it had intrigued the press and generated enormous
publicity for his gallery.
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"There has been so much interest since the last exhibition DeKlerk wants to host a Man's
Agitation seminar. He's inviting his philosophy students, press, publishers etceteras. It will be
big. Layla people are really responding to the work, it's a visible response. Not just something
enormous inside. Anonymous is, is Messianic."
"Let's keep some perspective on this,"
"Perspective is not a word I know. That went with the paintings. Lay La this is terrific. So what
have you got for me?"
"Hmm, I'll have to see. Anonymous is working on something, I don't know if it will be ready for
Wednesday,"
"It has to be!"
Layla was relaxed. It wasn't as if it were her creations being exhibited. She no longer had a
burning need to establish herself as an artist, there was something brutal about the market that
could rip the creative streak out of you. She acknowledged with a begrudging respect for Zach's
enduring dedication. What she was really enjoying was being at the forefront of the emerging art
scene. Being one of the first to see a new work by young artists. And she was learning how to
represent artists and how to move them onto the market.
On the back of her appearance at The Bank several young artists had approached her already and
she was gradually sifting through their submissions. One, a young man called Josh, of anaemic
appearance and rich talent, she had already managed to represent to the Zee gallery and sell two
of his pictures. This was a genuine business she could build and she knew her huge pleasure at
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championing Josh was only exceeded by his pleasure at transcending student status to paid-for
professional artist.
That evening Layla sat with Kit developing the next piece by Anonymous. Layla was cross
legged on the floor, in jeans and a loose dusty pink sweatshirt, a pencil and notepad rested on her
knee. An incense stick burnt on the low coffee table. Kit meanwhile had put on an old Annie
Lennox CD he had heard Zach play very often. Layla realised this was his way of keeping his
father in mind.
"So what's the next homework project?"
"Conductors and insulators."
"Could we do anything with that? `Man's Agitation' wise I mean?"
Kit lay on the sofa and gazed over the ceiling considering options. Like his father he was
extravagant in his lounging. One arm and leg were hung over the back of the sofa, one leg on the
cushions and one arm, flung to the floor. "How about when you walk past you make a board
knock two wires together which would set off an electric jolt that you could see. A quick flash of
electricity."
"Hey, Anonymous that's good," Layla wrote down `electric shock' and made a loose sketch of
the idea, but the viewer's hair was sticking up on end as if he'd received the shock. "Sort of
nature bites back that, isn't it?"
"Huh?"
"It's fun. Actually," she bit the pencil, "maybe that's where we're heading, but it's a step ahead. I
think we need something quieter. This DeKlerk chap leads a whole school in meditative studies.
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So far our work has been calming, natural. I think we need to keep on that theme.”
"Can we show moving sound waves? I'm learning about bats as well. Do you know bats see with
sound. They make squeaking noises we can't really hear, noises make sound waves and when the
wave hits something it bounces back. The bats have amazing ears and a bat can tell the exact
location and size of the thing their sound waves hit and can do that whilst flying and sticking it's
tongue out to eat it and mother bats hold onto their babies at the same time! The mother bats are
incredible. I'd like to be a bat." Kit folded his arms and contemplated that very possibility. Layla
gave a hoot of laughter.
She wrote down sound waves and drew a small bat and some wiggly waves. "Thanks for the
brainstorm session Kit. I know we'll crack this one."
For a moment Layla felt a pang of guilt; what a fake the whole shebang was. Then she reasoned
with herself that if the market wanted it they could have it. She had never intended to deceive
them. But was she making fools of the audience? She needled herself but finally answered no.
Oscar, the expert, had selected the work and even awarded it a prize. DeKlerk had seen the work
and was moved by it. These people had created a whole art scene that many people for whatever
reason found pleasure in. It apparently gave them something to think about. What was so
reasonable about God, or religion, but people thought about that a lot.
Kit yawned and his head lolled slightly before he jerked it back up and with an effort widened
his eyes.
"Let's think about it over night."
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"Sleep on it," said Kit.
"Time for bed."
"Hokey dokey. Hey Mum wouldn't it be amazing if I could actually see what you were saying, I
mean the sounds you were making."
"Certainly would."
"And Mum why don't our sound waves bump into each other and splash about, like the sea
waves. Our voices would be distorted, we'd all be taalking Iii ike thiis," his voice slowed down
and broke up.
"Good point, no idea," Layla stretched her arms above her head, then folded them behind her
back and touched her fingers together, giving her back muscles a good stretch.
Kit leant into the incense smoke and slowly said `hull lo' watching the smoke billow before him.
"Come on," we've got till Wednesday. Layla nudged Kit and tramped up the stairs behind him,
hands on his shoulders whilst he made bat screeching sounds.
As Layla left his bedroom the phone rang. Unexpectedly it was Mrs C. "Sorry to bother you love
at this time of night,"
"Oh no trouble," Layla said filling the expectant pause.
"Well sorry all the same, only I wanted to catch you in, and there's no way I'd interrupt you in the
office, I expect you've just sat down for your rest,"
"Oh don't worry, what can I do for you," Layla reassured the silence and hoped Mrs C would get
to her point.
"Well, it's not that I'm bothered but you are so regular and reliable I thought maybe there was a
problem?"
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"Sorry Mrs C?"
"The money, I'm sure you just forgot but I wanted to mention it,"
"Not enough?"
"No, no it's not that," cawed Mrs C.
"You need an advance?" Layla said wandering over to the wooden egg to check inside for cash.
"Good Lord no. We never over extend ourselves, no. It just wasn't there," Layla saw that the egg
was indeed empty.
"You do know where I leave the money?”
"Yes, yes Mrs Elliot, in your wooden egg. P'raps you just forgot,"
"Absolutely not!" said Layla suddenly angry, then quickly checked herself, "well perhaps I did
Mrs C. Look I'm so sorry I'll leave you double this week."
The moment she'd put the phone down Layla dashed up the stairs and burst into Kit's room. "Did
your father come round this week?" She hadn't meant to sound so angry, it wasn't Kit's fault.
"Er yes," Kit said rubbing his eyes.
"Did he take anything?"
"His paints, stuff,"
"Stuff! I'll give him stuff!" she kept her fury just about in check. "When he comes again you call
me immediately, he's a...you call me," it was then she saw his cracked window.
“What happed there?”
“Oh, it was urm, wasn’t me.”
“Right, who was it?” There was a silence. “Your father?” More silence. “Oh for God’s sake!”
She swept out of the room cursing Zach under her breath.
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Kit went to sleep dreaming of bats flying at high speed through a cloud of insects. He was one
of them and could see the sound waves zapping through the air.
Like fighter pilots the bats dropped in for the kill. One quick whip of his tongue and pow. "I can
eat 3,000 mosquitoes a night!" he screeched and woke himself up. He rubbed his eyes and
swallowed, relieved that there were no mosquitoes in his mouth then drifted back to sleep.
*****
Kit was kicking a ball against the school wall when his father put an arm round his neck.
"Kit my mucker. How you doing?"
"Good," Kit mumbled squirming out of his father's grip. "Gosh Dad, did you take something
from the house?"
Surprised by this unexpected question Zach looked baffled.
"Mum's really furious!" Alarm bells rang in Zach's head. "She says you're still punished and I
suppose you won't be allowed back to the house for ages now." He snaked his hands into his
father's jacket and found a chocolate bar.
"Don't tell your mother." He nodded at the chocolate.
"Uh uh." Kit eagerly unwrapped the goody.
"So what's new," Zach swiftly changed the subject and Kit innocently swerved with his turn of
conversation.
"Mum and I are preparing for our next exhibition. We've been stormbraining ideas and it made
me think of bats."
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"Stormbraining?"
"Yeah, just knocking a few ideas about,"
"Oh, right, right. Your next exhibition? So that’s still going well is it? Zach tried to moderate his
voice rather than giving way to the renewed jealousy.
"Yup," Kit gulped down a chunk of organic chocolate. "Is your mother going to stop working at
the agency?" Zach casually cocked his head to one side. His face fixed with a rigid appearance of
calm but here was an entirely new threat to his existence. Not only was she succeeding where he
had failed, here was the hideous prospect of his whole comfort zone being discarded. Supposing
Layla gave it all up to concentrate on her art. The two of them struggling in a studio, wallowing
in their creativity and their poverty. Images whirred through his head: little Kit with no shoes on;
himself drinking plonk from a carton, no Mrs C.
"Has she been talking about anything new recently?"
"About bats?" Kit asked but was more interested in his chocolate bar and the sky. He was sure he
could see a bat swooping past the trees.
"No!"
"What you took from the house?"
"What I took from....no, that's not what I meant!" Zach gave up. "Football?"
"Sure."
They walked off to the park together. Zach larked about but felt a painful worry in the pit of his
stomach. One moment horror at his selfishness, then fear of his homelessness, then a general
sickness at owning up to the missing money, a sickness he hadn't felt since he was a kid. Then he
corrected himself, a sickness he hadn't felt since he hid her painting under the sofa and she'd
found it.
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*****
Layla waltzed into The Farr Gallery swinging her hips in their skin tight Stella McCartney pants.
Her fine opaque cotton top billowed in uneven waves about her body.
"You look fan tastic!"
"Treated myself in Selfridges. Went into the designer collections and bought anything I would
never have considered before because it wouldn't go with everything else in my wardrobe. It's
fun isn't it?" She flung her black hand bag on the desk. There's that mesmeric puddle again
thought Jerry, it still had potential.
"Yes it's fun."
"Wow!" she had seen the monumentally large oil behind Jerry's desk. "What's that!"
"Yerse striking isn’t it. Bit of a story actually which is relevant to you, bizarre in fact and this
painting won't be there for long. It's a strange story," Jerry decided he would leave out the details
of the visit not wishing to make the Adrianne factor more complicated than necessary. "Guess
who painted it!”
“Some lunatic.”
“Correct, which one?”
“Give up? Zach.”
Layla stared at the thick slab of paint with a renewed interest. Examining it for Zach’s usual
detail.
“You are joking?”
“Nope, Zach did it.” Jerry chuckled, his shoulders rising right up to his ears.
“What got into him?”
“Money I imagine. Well the need. Funny the effect it has on the most principled people. Then
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the painting didn’t sell to the man who was to buy it,” Jerry faltered imperceptibly at the
memory, “well that was complicated….suffice it to say that this was the result of some sort of
extraordinary accident and through a chain of events we ended up hanging the bloody thing, then
of course I couldn't get it down. Look at the size of it! Next thing guess what…it's sold!"
"Never!" Layla stepped two paces back taking in the violent colours and slap dash application of
oil. "It's dripping, look there's paint on your wall."
"I know. That's specifically what they like. This thing won't dry for a year. He can't wait to get it
home and have some drips on his own wall."
"Who is he?" Layla sat down in the sofa and crossed her long patterned legs. Her bright clad
arms two vivid strips across the white leather sofa back.
"Quite a prominent buyer actually. He's bought a lot of stuff from me, he knows what he likes."
"How much?" Her face a picture of bafflement.
"Well quite a lot. I've been trying to call Zach, just when you walked in. I can't get hold of him."
"Can't help you there. No idea where he's staying but if you get him I want a word too," she
looked a bit like an annoyed teacher.
"I need to let him know about the sale. I've got the cheque and everything this time."
“This time?”
“Oh like I say it’s complicated.”
"Well frankly Jerry I'd be inclined to let him suffer in his impoverishment for a while. He's got a
bloody cheek,"
“Well you and him have your own troubles. I’m an agent, this is strictly business.”
“No, he’s too bad.”
"What's he done now?"
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"Oh just being himself. He sneaks in to see Kit, smashes a window, raids the fridge and well
other things,” she said equivocally.
"Really," said Jerry, he realized there was more that had riled her but didn’t want to fuel her
irritation.
"How much?" she nodded at the painting.
"Seven,"
"Hundred or thousand. Or seven pence?" She wrinkled her nose disparagingly.
"Thousand." Jerry mouthed, his eyebrows curling up, incapable of hiding his own incredulity.
There was no need to say how the sale had thrown into question his entire judgment,
undermining his belief in everything that he was doing in the world of modern art. Layla was
smirking at him, or more accurately at the situation.
“Seven thousand and just when I’ve thrown him out! Blimey! Well you're a pragmatist Jerry.
You surely have to be in this business. Look at me, I mean Kit and me.” Jerry was shaking his
head, equally incredulous at the turn of events. "Actually that's why I'm here, Kit and me. I
wanted to run our latest idea by you. We've an exhibition coming up with Patrick DeKlerk, a
rather prominent philosopher giving a talk. He's fascinated by our work on Man's Agitation and
the stillness stuff."
"Isn't everybody? There'll be little groups in the squares sitting around in rings practicing
stillness, staring at leaves to watch them quiver as people walk by. This isn't just art it's an entire
cult you're creating. The great Yogi Baba Anonymous." He put his hands together in prayer and
ommed.
“Don't be ridiculous,"
"Well it's not far off." Jerry flexed his arms, shaking free his cuffs and making a neat church with
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his fingers. "What are you laughing at?" then he glanced up behind at the monolithic `More
Paint'.
"Very amusing isn't it. Well your husband will be pleased at least."
"I don't know if he will really? He's worked for ten years to sell something he loves and then
creates that, for God knows what reason and that's the one that gets bought."
"Twice. Bought twice! Says something doesn't it."
Many things thought Layla. Then she laid out the sketches for Anonymous’ new work.
“Well I have to say the bizarre enthusiasm for ‘More Paint makes me quite enthusiastic about
your own new concept.”
“Great! Terrific, approved.”
Both were desperate to say `But is it art?" or worse, "Is it a con?" but they kicked the question
under the desk.
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Bin and Brown came down the stairs together. Bin was all but holding Brown's hand.
"Come on in to my little school." Zach looked up from his painting and greeted his two students.
"Help yourself to some paper."
They walked over to the table and selected paper and charcoal then stopped to examine Zach's
work on the easel.
"This is the real thing," said Brown, "Man you really know what you're doing."
Bin had let his bottom lip droop and was nodding in semi awe. Zach unused to any comment on
his work in progress; hastily put his brushes down and turned their attention to setting
themselves up.
"Find a good pool of light and begin thinking about what you want to draw." He lifted his picture
off the easel leaving a space for one of them. "It might be something in this room or something
from your mind. I think it's best to choose something tangible for the time being. We'll
concentrate on getting the lines and technique right." Seeing the two figures casting aimlessly
around the worn out basement he encouraged them, "Just look for any object or two objects you
like, something you feel you could bring to life." He touched the paint brushes, and prodded a
cushion, "It could be allegorical, if you know what I mean, tells a story, or just an item you relate
to."
Brown chose a book, a piece of paper and a paint brush.
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"I think I can see where you're coming from," said Zach. He turned a reassuring smile on Bin
which wilted on sight of the one dirty sock he had selected for his subject. It was black, thinner
at the heel where it was worn down, an unexceptional sock. It was also his, which seemed
vaguely personal.
"So Bin, you want to paint the sock?" Bin nodded. "It says something to you?"
"It's a sock," he shrugged.
"You're right." Zach turned to his charcoals and busily selected one for each of them, avoiding
Bin's sensitive twitching eyes. "We need to arrange our objects. Consider how they'll be linked."
He examined Brown's collection, "You don't want your items to appear as a list. Find the
connection and show it to the viewer. Look for some connecting lines, an arrow. You might have
in mind a particular background that will help with this. Bin, now your sock," He folded one arm
and scratched his cheek with his other hand, thoughtfully. "I don't know what you had in mind
with that?" Bin made no offer to elaborate, "Can you think how you want it to lie. Is it neatly
folded or cast aside? Where is it sitting? On a chest, on the floor, on a plate?” Bin giggled like a
school kid. He handed Bin a piece of charcoal, he took it and tentatively began sketching. Zach
noticed he was holding it in his left hand. “You’re left handed?”
“Yeah.”
“But your finger is missing from your right hand.”
“Yeah.”
Zach hovered, thinking further explanation might be forthcoming but Bin plodded on oblivious.
They drew their outlines, then Zach had them redraw them. Bin was so quick he found time to
redraw his ten times for Brown's two efforts and of course Brown’s was the better for it.
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"First we've got to get completely familiar with our subject. When we've formed a clear vision of
what we want to communicate about the subject then we'll move onto depicting that ah, vision."
Zach thought he sounded very much like a teacher, in fact Bin and Brown were behaving very
much like pupils, something was happening. He pressed on before he lost his flow and it
confused him. "The first stage I guess will be light and shade. Hey Brown, that's good, I can see
you've made some tonal exploration in that charcoal sketch already. Bin this will be particularly
important with your subject if you don't want the sock to look like a slug, you need to show the
folds and creases, you can do this with tone."
Zach saw Bin screw up his face and whisper to Brown like a kid in the back row, "What's tone?"
"I've an idea," said Zach pretending he hadn't noticed Bin, "has anyone a Polaroid camera?"
"I've got everything but a Polaroid but I know Sasha has one," said Brown.
"Do you think she'll lend it to us? There's an easy way of analysing the tonal gradation. A
Polaroid simplifies the subject tones making it easier for you to copy. So who's brave enough to
ask Sasha if we can borrow her camera?"
Bin looked scared.
"Aye, I'll ask her." Brown dropped his charcoal and bounded up the stairs.
Bin began to fidget, awkward left on his own with the teacher. Zach leant over his work and
flicked through the ten sketches.
"Try and do another one, really slowly. These are good Bin and each one is better than the other.
Can you see how concentrating on the detail improves your work?" He picked one sketch up, "I
mean this one, it has some character.”
"The sock has character." Bin repeated dully.
"Yes, if that's possible," the idea even made Zach chuckle. "Did you have anything in mind?"
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"Sad," was Bin's offering.
"A sad sock?" Bin nodded. Zach looked at the unpaired, crumpled sock in the centre of the
empty sheet of paper. "Lonely?" Bin nodded in firm agreement. "I can see that," Bin grinned
with the unexpected reassurance.
"What am I? Snappy Snaps," Sasha was stomping down the stairs with her camera. Brown
following fast behind, clearly regretting inviting her down. "Coo, you've made yourself at home
here haven't you." She looked about at the reclaimed basement. "Doesn't seem quite fair
somehow."
"What's nae fair?" asked Brown promptly.
"Well he's just arrived and got the best room,"
"Dinnae know you wanted it."
Zach was tossing a piece of charcoal from one hand to the other maintaining an amicable silence.
"Strikes me we should charge you double seeing as you've double the space, triple at least."
"Och! We should pay him," said Brown brushing past her on the bottom step. "Noo one's even
turned the light on down here in years." He took up his post by his sketches and waited like a
patient student for instructions.
"Thanks for the loan of the camera," said Zach.
"You'll have to replace the film," Sasha said bolshily busy taking in the clean windows and
reclaimed floor.
"Of course I'll replace the film." He turned to the sketches, "We just want to do a small
experiment, we're looking at the tonal qualities..."
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"Wooo, tonal qualities," she sang sarcastically. "This is exactly what I hate about school. They
reduce everything to rules and guidelines. Bin you're a free spirit, you just express yourself.
What do you need to learn about drawing slugs for?" She gestured to his sketch.
"It's a sock," said Bin quietly.
"You could have fooled me," she laughed.
Zach leant forward and took a Polaroid of the sock. The print edged out of the camera and he
whisked it through the air a few times then gave it to Bin. By the time Bin's finished you'll know
exactly what he's drawing. Bin keep your eye on the development, watch it evolve, that way
you'll see the tones. It's straight forward, light and dark, that's what we've got to replicate."
Bin stared at the picture watching every second of the process. Zach handed Brown the camera
to do his own Polaroid then pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He took a puff and relaxed against a
bench. "So Sasha what sort of paintings do you do?"
"My own. Self-expressionism. I tell people what I think with my art."
"Can they understand you?"
"I dunno,"
"Well have you asked them?"
"Ask who? No one will look at you unless you're Damien bloody Hirst. "I'll take a look..."
"What for?"
"What am I going to look at them for?"
"You going to buy one?"
"Wow!” Brown exclaimed from his corner. Sasha turned her threatening glare on him.
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Zach exhaled smoke and turned away from Sasha, still wondering how he could mellow her. He
knew she hadn't come down to save Brown the walk.
"How's the Polaroid?"
"This is definitely a good idea," Brown had a huge grin on, it was like magic to him.
"Do you want a go? It's your camera," Zach offered Sasha.
Sasha smirked at her two old mates expecting at least a raised eyebrow in return but they were
resolutely with Zach.
Zach rummaged in his pockets and found a quarter bar of chocolate. He snapped it in half with
one hand then offered the crumbled wrapper of pieces to Sasha. She hesitated, Zach shoved a
piece in his mouth and tossed the rest of the chocolate on the table. "Only two people ever see
my work most of the time," he said to Sasha who folded her arms across her chest tightly. "My
wife and my agent. Then they all go in a big pile in my studio and I start again. Been doing that
for over ten years."
"At least you've got an agent."
"He's my wife’s mate from college. Look, are you painting just because you think you can make
some money out of this lark or because you love doing it?"
Sasha looked at the other two for support, her face a scowl, as if she were being picked on.
"Do you love painting? You got to you know, it’s not as easy a game as it might seem, you
know?"
"What do you think?"
"Come on Sasha," He picked up a piece of paper and charcoal and put them on the window
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recess, then dragged a tall kitchen stool over to the window. "I'd be very interested in what you
choose as a subject. Take anything, go and fetch something if you want."
"I'm not following any rules," guarded interest crept into her voice.
"They're not rules. It's sharing knowledge. You're an open type of person," said Zach lying, "be
open about this."
Sasha watched him, hands on hips, her feet spread, like she was about to bully someone on a
building site. Zach waved a hand towards the window, "I know an artist when I see one and they
can't walk past a blank piece of paper,"
Sasha suddenly stepped towards him, with a silly grin, bashful under the praise she felt her due.
She plucked the chocolate from where Zach had put it on the table, gobbled it up, then smacked
her muscular bottom on the stool.
****
Standing on the corner of the high street, in his waterproof jacket with Giving emblazoned across
the back and a clipboard in his hand, Zach thought about his three students back in the basement.
They'd all promised to complete two sketches with tonal replication for him to see at the end of
the day. Even Sasha was enthusiastic. Bin had already managed to turn his slug into a pretty
obvious sock. Brown's was really very adept, of all of them Brown was the one with talent. Zach
was pleased his favourite student was the best. Students, Zach laughed to himself. What else
were they? Those that can, do, those that can't, teach. That's what his mother always said.
Couldn't he do? He thought he could paint, everyone told him he could. But then why hadn't he
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sold anything? Why couldn't he make a living from it? Why was he standing on this street corner
trying to get one of these sullen pedestrians to sign his form? They wouldn't even look at him.
"Excuse me sir, have any time for the homeless?" The man didn't even blink, in fact his eyes
took on a fixed glare, focussing on something invisible in the distance, just as he used to do.
Zach watched the faces on bodies barreling towards him, he maintained his cheerful smile as
instructed and bounced about like a jolly puppy. With a few hours of observation under his belt
he noticed a subtle change in the pedestrian's movements as soon as they came into range. Some
stepped slightly to the side of the pavement so they could put that extra foot between them. Some
took a sudden interest in the ground. Others rearranged their expressions so they appeared intent
on an extremely important thought. A woman coming towards him was doing just that; when she
glimpsed his sights on her, her brow furrowed as if she were in the middle of a fearsomely
difficult calculation.
"Excuse me," started Zach, all unassuming enthusiasm as instructed.
"Sorry," the woman frowned apologetically, and patted her temple. She was in the middle of
something important otherwise of course she would stop. These people were practised.
Approached too often, they'd all become so hard. He was already sick of asking the same
question, no wonder they were sick of hearing it.
Zach looked across the street. Melissa had collared someone. Mind you she had the figure for it.
That bloke was grinning at her like a halfwit, would he sign and ask her out or just ask her out.
Oops, he's laughing and she's doubled up with amusement. No signing, he's off; just a pick up
effort.
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"Ah sir, excuse me, have you a moment in your day to talk to me about the homeless?" The man
was in his sixties, wore a grey mac and held a plastic bag in one hand.
"Yes I bloody have. You thief. I know you lot. You want my money to fund your prostitutes and
fast cars. Piss off you shark. The police should deal with you." He raised his bag obviously
considering a more physical attack, changed his mind and strode off, muttering insults.
"I've had a few of them," Melissa was at his side. Lithe, fresh and irrepressibly positive. Also
walking toward him was Jackie. An overweight twenty something wearing size eighteen hipsters
and a black tattoo that morphed unflatteringly across her stomach. Please don't stand near me all
day, thought Zach, watching her move with an anti magnetic force about her.
"What was he on about?" Melissa asked.
"God knows, something about me funding prostitutes."
"Oh that. There was some article about a con artist running one of these shows, it was a racket.
About ten pence went to charity and the rest lined the boss's pockets, very nicely."
"So that wouldn't be our company then?"
"Nah, shouldn't think so. Peter Doolan's straight up."
"You think?"
"Sure," Melissa shrugged and tried to make eye contact with a passing young man.
"Do you always go for the young men?"
"At least I've half a chance of getting their attention."
"Who do you think I should go for?" said Zach eyeing the pedestrians in all their forms.
"Oh, I should say fit young girls who look like they've got some common interest with you.” He
was conscious of Melissa watching him rather than the passers by now.
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"Yeah?" Zach turned to Melissa, "how would I know that?"
"Well they might have a clipboard like you or something," she let out a breathy laugh and raised
her eyebrows.
"Excuse me Miss, would you have time to talk to me about the homeless?" he asked Melissa.
"Well, your place or mine?"
"Melissa really!" Zach feigned shock. "Anyway I've a wife and kid I think you'd be a bit
disillusioned after I put away the clipboard.”
"Ah well, so it would have to be my place?" she blinked charmingly. "Melissa you are cramping
my style, here comes a hot prospect. Look scarce you are far too pretty."
"If you change your mind just whistle," she whistled and skipped across the road, dodging the
traffic.
A rather oversized thirty year old with badly permed hair came towards him. Her thighs in their
brown leggings rubbed against eachother. She carried a good leather bag and wore a trendy black
faux fur coat. This was going to be it. Zach beamed, rubbed his fingers through his hair and
bowed courteously before her. She stopped.
"Madame, I have some fascinating news. And you look like a fascinating type of woman...."
That's how he started and went on to sign his first donor. When the signature was dry and the
lady had been delicately despatched, Zach swung round and gave Melissa the thumbs up across
the road.
Four more to go he said to himself optimistically.
"Well weird," Jackie was by his side. Zach wondered why she died her dark curly hair orange.
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Or had done so some months ago, it having grown out and now it looked like a worn out orange
brush.
"What?"
"That is. I've seen that lady go past every day this week and never been able to stop her."
"Hmm," Zach mumbled keeping his eyes on the pedestrians and presumably future prospects.
"I'm doing so crap. Nothing for two days, I'm going to be slaughtered. " She wiped her nose with
the back of her hand. Zach was thinking about exit plans, or a reason to cross the road and stand
next to Melissa. "If I don't get a sale I don't have a job, if I don't have a job my dad will thump
me."
"Well let's hope you get a sale," said Zach encouragingly.
"Well weird, you just had some sort of mojo going with her didn't you," she made a clicking
noise in her mouth.
"I suppose I might have done,” he said not knowing what that might be. “Pleasant woman." He
looked over Jackie's head to something distracting beyond.
Jackie gobbed in the gutter, Zach raised his eyes to the sky and concentrated on puffy clouds and
a cleaner space far from the gutter.
"How did you do it? First one wasn't it?"
"Hot tip from Melissa. Just look for someone you think you could chat to. Well that's what she
told me." At mention of Melissa's name Jackie looked winsomely across the street where their
colleague was bending and cavorting amongst the pedestrians like a bright sprite.
"She signs ten a day," Jackie pronounced miserably.
Reflects her general appeal thought Zach evaluating his respective chances, then Jackie's.
"We'll be there," he said with false solidarity. "Look I think we should split up, look lively not
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um, moan together. Though I could do that all day," he attempted empathy.
"Yeah." Like Eeyore, Jackie moped off further down the street and Zach increased the distance
by moving to a patch ten yards up the street.
Unfortunately his optimism didn't last through the day. By the afternoon with the rain drizzling
on his cold nose that peeped out from under the branded pac a mac hood he thought he'd never
sign another person again. He had targeted young women only, but the mac must have had some
negative effect. None of them showed any interest. Each time he stepped towards them they
moved away. He was on a week's trial. At the end of the week he would have £200 and that
would be spent as planned. But if he didn't sign anyone else up, would they keep him on for the
next week? Then what would he do for money? He looked over at Jackie, so visibly miserable no
one would want to chat to her, let alone be moved to an act of spontaneous generosity.
He looked at the phone booth up the street. Then up at the sky, grey clouds thickening. He strode
towards the booth and quickly stepped in. In his pockets he found his packet of cigarettes. He
only had two left and though he had paid up front for his food and lodgings if he spent any more
money on smoking he wouldn't be able to travel about town. Not even get to this stupid job. He
lit the cigarette and decided the last one would be his last one until he was back home, whenever
that would be.
He fingered around his pockets and found a fifty pence coin, then dialled Layla's work number.
Someone else answered, sounding efficient and peculiarly familiar.
“Who is speaking?”
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“Jack Stalk,” he instinctively lied, thinking Layla might not take his call. There was a sharp click
leaving Zach dragging fretfully on his cigarette, watching the units disappear imagining Layla
sauntering towards her desk.
“Come on,” he hissed to the phone.
"Layla Elliot,"
"Layla," he breathed with an unexpected flood of relief.
"Zach! You are the end, the bloody last end of a rat's tail!" She hissed furious.
"Oh, um fine and how are you? By the way I'm in a phone booth and..." he persisted with an
innocent tone of voice.
"Don't do that! You know what I'm talking about!"
"No?" Zach eked out the word cautiously.
"I thought you couldn't do worse when you, ah Jesus! Now you're nothing but a common thief."
She was quick to the subject. "How could you?"
"I was uncommonly desperate. Look I'm so sorry, it was bad and I can pay you back,"
"Really!"
"I'll bring it back this week, I promise. Look I've only got about ten units left. The mobile's flat
and I've no money right now..."
"No money? Well how are you going to pay me back?" Zach became silent and Layla turned the
screw. "I said if you've no money, how are you going to pay me back?"
"I will, I promise. I'm earning a little.”
“Actually Zach you’re earning more than a little.” What did she mean. What was she after,
surely she couldn’t imagine him flush enough for alimony not with the income from this lark.
“Look Layla how long is this going on for?"
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"How long is what going on for?" She sounded all annoyed again.
"I mean I'm out on the street in a pack-a-mac with a logo and a clipboard, no one wants to talk to
me and it's pissing with rain," he bleated.
"That's your new job?" He could hear her smirk.
"Yes, yes, don't get excited, it's hardly a long term prospect. That's why I'm calling. We have to
talk. This is not what I want to do with my life," the pips started to go.
“Not your life plan huh!”
He shoved the phone under his chin and rummaged through his pockets for change. He found a
twenty pence piece and pressed it into the slot. The units turned up to two then almost
immediately went back to zero. "I want to come home,"
"So you don't like your job. You just want to come back and make it all the same again."
"No, no no," said Zach frustrated, staring at the zero units, rapidly trying to think what he was
meant to say. "Layla I want to be with you."
"Oh so nothing to do with our bijou Georgian terrace!"
"No! Yes! but it’s you, what do you mean?"
What on earth was wrong with her, "I'm sorry. I'll be different, I'll do anything,"
The pips went again. Zach couldn’t understand how or why now Layla’s anger had blown up.
What happened to absence makes the heart grow fonder. What had he done? And it was only at
this point his subconscious reminded him what he really had done. Stealing Mrs C’s money was
low. A hollow feeling settled on him like a grey day on an empty beach resort in winter. He was
guilty, whether she knew it or not. This was miserable. The pips stopped. His cigarette had
finished. He dropped it on the floor and the line went dead.
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Layla wondered if she’d been a bit too cruel holding back Jerry’s good news. But in her heart
she knew he’d never make a living with paintings like ‘More Paint’ and he’d never be happy
doing so if he was tempted. And besides he still had a hell of a lot to learn so he could just stay
out there.
The second day on the street looked bleak. He didn’t think he could ever be so cold and wet.
"Who's going to stop in this weather? What's the point?" he grumbled to Melissa who was still
bounding about with her theatrical energy, her long legs clad in tight denim that made them seem
even more springy and flexible.
"No, no, no!" she sang in a tone of a good fairy who was having none of it. "Absolutely no one is
going to stop when you've got a face like that. You look so down," her voice dipped
significantly.
"I am bloody down!"
"Hey, keep your downness at home! It's not useful out here. But why are you so miserable and
also why exactly are you doing this job?" Zach noticed that Melissa managed to smile broadly at
every passer by whilst holding the conversation with him about misery.
"My misery is too complicated Melissa, and as for why I'm doing this job, well because it is
literally the only thing I seem to be able to do that earns any money." Zach watched her
performance with awe. Someone stopped. She beamed, chirruped and got a smile back, the man
reached for his wallet, the gesture, sorry we don't take contributions only long term
commitments, a regretful shake and polite good bye with cheery good wishes on both sides.
"Nearly had one,"
"Never mind," she breezed. "Anyway what did you say? Oh yes, the only job you can do. Not
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too good a reason. What about the fact that it's a worthwhile job."
"For who?"
"For the homeless!"
Melissa looked shocked. "Don't tell me you haven't thought about them?"
Zach hadn't really, not in a `they' sense, only in fear of being homeless, and secondly a revulsion
for the weird people he had met at the soup kitchen.
"So why do you do this job?" he asked her.
"It's good steady money, I meet all sorts of people, and obviously it goes to a good end." Melissa
gave a little nod to someone raising a hand in apologetic refusal.
"They're all so cowering, sneaking past laden with guilt," Zach complained.
"Well don't make them feel guilty. You'd be happy if four or five people stopped in a day so let
the rest pass by without feeling embarrassed. And do try to look happier because who wants to
talk to you with a face like a frying pan."
"I'm sorry I just don't have it in me to bring on a smile to order,"
"Don't order it up. Think about the good things you're trying to do and smile genuinely. Look
you could be on the streets with no money, no home, no family, some horrible disease, dinner is
literally in the dustbin." That was a sobering thought, this was making Zach feel better. "You can
change that for someone with your optimism. I told you, go for the women, they'll like you." She
winked, "But do try to remember you're doing a good job, you'll feel better." Melissa pecked him
on the cheek, "Later,"
"Yeah, later,"
She stepped ten paces back from him in her jaunty skip, constantly greeting the approaching
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pedestrians.
I could be on the streets with a terrible disease, Zach reminded himself. I am one of life's
fortunates. I am earning money and I am helping people. I am helping other people who want to
help. I am a conduit for change. He pranced in front of a young woman in a very chic white mac.
She giggled but pressed on. That was an improvement already, a smiling rejection instead of a
grimace. He kept his own smile on and found himself springing about a la Melissa. "Excuse me,
have a chat to me, it's cold and wet," he said putting his arm out to another young woman, about
twenty five, stringy hair and freckles. He sprung up an umbrella and she huddled underneath it a
shy smile on her face. "I know you are a good listener but I shan't tell you my problems. Do you
like the rain?" She scrunched up her nose revealing an uneven row of happy teeth.
He signed her up. That was a fantastic feeling. Melissa bounded past him. "You can do this job
brilliantly."
She really knew how to buoy him up. Was that what they called leadership qualities? He
expected Layla had those, or maybe she didn't, she never managed to get him to do the washing
up. Her fault, he concluded making himself feel even better.
With one success and more positive thought, further success followed. By Thursday he was
averaging five sign ups a day. This was fantastic. He felt as brilliant as Melissa said he was. He’d
reached his target and would be praised and then praised more for each sign up over his target.
He was proud of his achievement, ridiculous he knew, and he wanted to kiss every one of his
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new sign-up sheets, each a testimony to his ability in whatever it was he needed to do this job.
And there was a new feeling, competitiveness. He wanted to have the most sign ups. He couldn’t
wait for everyone to say what they had, surely he’d beaten them. Well except Melissa but that
was expected.
He was Mr Optimistic at the group huddle. It was so much easier to be encouraging from the
sanctity of success. "Everyone all right?" He grinned idiotically at his colleagues. "Rain’s not so
bad, huh." He nudged Jackie who remained forlorn. His own smile waned a little. She had that
effect, he must remember not to look at her! The section leader had come by to take in the week
end forms before everyone dispersed for the Friday drinks. They each began reporting their
results. Zach was bursting. He began fanning out his sheets under the clip so the physical
evidence of his sudden success was obvious.
"Eight sign ups," said Ollie, a round dark chap with a dark moon face. Yes, Zach gripped his
hand in his pocket a discreet punch in the air. He had twenty.
Melissa was huddled under Saul's overcoat. Saul was more Melissa's age. Very tall, very
handsome, a graduate in history from a very good university who was simply collecting some
money for a trip up a mountain or something courageous. How many did he have?
"Sixteen," Saul said. Way to go! Zach said to himself, his grin widening.
“Melissa?”
“Twenty for me.” Yeah! I’m even with the queen! Saul hugged Melissa closer to him, her pink
nose and brown eyes peering out from the folds of his fleece. Somehow they managed complete
physical contact without any sexual inference, Zach envied them. He turned to his other side
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thinking of similar tactile bonhomie but there was Jackie, he didn't fancy cuddling her. He
looked at her rain smeared face, or was that rain? He looked closer and realised a tear was
tipping down her cheek and snot was gathering under her nose.
"Good on you two," said section leader Joel to Saul and Melissa.
Zach glanced at the clipboard hanging from Jackie's hand, it had one uncompleted form on it. He
nudged her, she turned her face up to him looking quite pitiful. He gestured to the board and she
shook her head. Zach then did something that pained him. In his ecstatic sense of triumph a
thought had crossed his mind. The headline with the fireman saving lives. This may be
something less dangerous but he felt now was probably his fireman moment. He pulled ten of his
forms from random spots in his pile, picked out his pen from his jacket, changed the name on the
bottom signatory and passed them to Jackie. She looked gormlessly at them. He took her clip
board and slipped them over the empty form, then stuffed the board back into her limp hand.
"Zach? How d'you get on?"
"Okay, not bad ten," said Zach pulling the required cheesy grin on his face, "but only half as
much as next week. Feeling optimistic." He nodded positively from face to face. Gee he thought
this was like being American.
"Good on you Zach. A nice start; great attitude.” Zach shrugged modestly and looked round to
show off his halo. “So Jackie, pressures on, how did we do?" the section leader continued in his
team management voice.
Jackie sniffed, then cleared her throat, pulled a brave smile onto her face and said "Ten," then
turned her burning gratitude on Zach. He gave her a big non sexual hug.
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In the evenings Zach had been returning to find his little school waiting for him in the basement.
When he walked down the stairs all eyes turned on him, expectant, eager and gratifying. He said
hi and dropped his jacket onto the bed, rolled up his sleeves and began moving through the
artists' `easels'.
"So what do you think of my packet of fags?" asked Sasha holding up her painting.
"Hey, excellent, it looks just like a packet of fags," Zach said enthusiastically.
"It does doesn't it. You're a bit of a traditionalist aren't you.”
"Come on lady, just look at that figure," Brown pointed to Zach's work. "Could you do that?"
"But who wants that?" Sasha jabbed her chin at Zach's painting, "It's all about 3D now."
"What's Its?" said Brown.
"It. Today. You know.”
"Is that the point then?”
"What else?" said Sasha.
"Faddist."
Sasha looked mean. Zach intervened. He picked up Sasha's painting and took a good look at it in
the light. He actually liked it.
"We're all artists," he said returning the picture. "But I think that if we know certain skills and
can use the tools of the trade our work will be all the finer. Go ahead and plaster junk onto
boards or distort prints or chip away at a bit of wax but if you know the basic skills, the craft,
then you'll have more freedom to express yourselves.
Of course there are trends in the market and if you are engaged by them, then by all means work
with it. But if we work to order for the market then our emotional reference will be crushed." He
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looked at his own painting again and was confident he could see the depth of his emotional
reference. "I suppose if your style is considered `passe' you just have to be very very good at it."
As he spoke he realised this was the first time the insight had dawned on him. Brown cleared his
throat and Zach looked up, remembering where he’d left off, he waved his hands about a little in
what he feared might be pontific gestures but couldn’t help throwing himself into the teacher
role, especially now he’d said such wise things and learnt something himself. “Then, then if
you’re very good, someone will be struck by your work and pay for it, trend or no trend." He
rubbed a hand over his chin and added more to himself, "I suppose I just wasn't trying hard
enough.” He thought of the piles of canvas he’d covered with uninspired conceit. "Anyway it's
important not to be too comfortable with yourself. Struggling artists and all that..." the words
trailed off.
"You're trying hard now though," Bin said, then regretted his interruption and tried to shrink his
shoulders and concentrate on his sock.
Brown joined in with agreement. "It shows. I mean that the image means something to you.”
“Yes, yes it does,” Zach mumbled and then cleared his throat. “Right let’s practice some
different techniques. I aim to give you a battery of skills that will provide you with the freedom
of invention. Understand?" Sasha pursed her mouth as if she was being lectured with what she
already knew.
Over the next two hours they all tried out scumbling, stippling and dry brush techniques; they
were absorbed in their work, asked questions and showed off their experiments. Zach walked
from one to the other, offering advice and encouragement.
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"When does paint school break up?" trilled Adrianne dancing down the stairs. “Dinner's ready
and Claude's hackles are up, I warn you. Hello sweetie," she said to Zach and blew him a kiss.
"Oh hello darling another nice day at the office?"
"Oh fine thank you. But my client is an incorrigible flirt." She flicked his ear lobe. "Jealous?"
"I would fear for your client rather." He raised his eyes and moved off to pack up the paints.
"Well I wouldn't have to flirt so much if you didn't play the ice maiden.”
Bin scurried about looking deeply embarrassed. Sasha rolled her eyes.
"Try to look a bit like a woman and you could flirt too," Adrianne sniped at her.
"Fuck off!" said Sasha tossing down her brushes and stomping up the stairs. Adrianne threw
herself onto the bed and crossed her legs. Ignoring the presence of Brown and Bin she went on
addressing Zach.
"So is our relationship over? I mean I'm getting these distinct vibes."
"You're very sensitive," Zach picked up the brushes Sasha had abandoned.
"It's just that I have options you know."
"My darling Adrianne. Someone as attractive as yourself is bound to have options."
"Someone as attractive as myself usually finds the choice in her hands."
“I’ll have you,” said Brown sauntering past her.
"Um let me think about that. A smelly Scottish biker?” Adrianne flicked her teeth. "No thanks."
She sprung off the bed and draped an arm round Zach. "So you won't be jealous if I run off with
someone else?"
"No sweetheart. This is a very open relationship. You can do exactly what you please." He
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pressed Bin's shoulder who was being over diligent in washing his own brushes. "Come on, let's
see what Old Mother Claude has for our supper."
Adrianne was right. When Zach and Bin walked into the kitchen Claude's expression was darker
than ever. He was sitting at the table, his eyes pinched, smoke rising in a long slow line from the
cigarette held to his lips. A pot of some sort of stew sat in the middle of the table, a warm herby
aroma wafting through the kitchen. The windows were steamed up.
"Smells great Claude," Zach offered.
"I know." He stubbed his cigarette out in the foil casing, previously occupied by a jam tart and
swung his legs off the chair beside him. The others filed in and took their seats. With the subtlest
glance Claude indicated Adrianne should serve, even she was not up to defying Claude.
****
For the first time in his life Zach experienced pressure. Initially he didn't know what was keeping
him awake. He tried to remember if he'd had a coffee but he hadn't. Each time he closed his eyes
though, a tension built up in his neck and sleep seemed a distant prospect. His mind was as alert
as first thing in the morning, or more alert than first thing, similar to how he usually felt around
10 am after a leisurely coffee. And though his body was aching, exhausted and desperate for the
sleep it was denied, his mind seemed to override its needs. Finally Zach got out of bed. He
looked out of the window and towards the next day, when he'd have to skip up and down the
street with his clip board. He pictured Melissa and smiled at the thought of her boundless energy.
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Then his mouth turned down as he remembered Jackie's fear of failure and recognised the same
fear in himself. The tension gave him a twinge in his neck. He'd heard about people being unable
to sleep, so troubled were they about work. He'd even seen Layla huffing and puffing as she
turned about in the bed, worried about what the next office day had store for her. And what had
he always said, it will happen anyway, relax. Well it wasn't the case was it? It would only turn
out the way he made it turn out. Christ he was forty and he’d only just figured out his fate was in
his own hands. And what if at the end of the day he couldn’t stand the pressure. What if no one
stopped for him all day? All week? He shook at the horrible thought, the ignominy of this silly
thing, someone not signing his blinking forms.
He went to his table and shook open the cigarette pack. It was empty. He checked his jacket,
nothing. Pulling on a pair of jeans he crept upstairs hoping to find some lone cigarette abandoned
in the kitchen. A light was on, for a bunch of socialists they weren't very conscious of their
electricity bills. He barged through the door, swaying on his tired legs, his eyes scrunched up
against the fluorescent strip that graced their kitchen. He smelt Gauloise and to his dismay found
the hunched figure of Claude at the kitchen table. His feet in their customary position on the
chair next to him. A red wool jumper with long sleeves hid most of his hands, except for the
pinch of two fingers on the remains of his cigarette.
"Uh, sorry," Zach turned to retreat, then the smell of smoke tickled his nostrils and he turned
back.
"Couldn't sleep uh?" Claude didn't answer, his brown eyes shone under his slightly raised
eyebrows, apparently curious as to Zach's presence. "Me neither."
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"I can sleep." Claude let a stream of smoke ripple before his face. "I like the night."
"Figures."
With a vague curiosity Zach pulled out a chair and slumped opposite his least friendly flat mate.
He tried to weigh up his chances if he were to ask for a cigarette. They were silent for a good
five minutes, Zach drifted off into a semi dislocated train of thought based around persuading
people to `sign up' and stealing a cigarette from Claude.
"So, `ows ze school?"
"Ze school," Zach repeated with no particular emphasis. "Pah!"
Zach looked up to see the first smile on Claude's mouth. He cocked his chin in question. "zose
zat can, do, zose that can't, teach, no?"
Zach felt he'd taken enough from this arrogant beast, he deserved a cigarette. He snatched at the
box without asking, shook out a cigarette and lit it. Claude didn't even look at the box, he just
maintained a slight curl of his top lip.
"The school is good. I suppose you don't need to learn anything Gauguin."
Claude's eyes squinted with amusement and his shoulders shook.
"What?"
"Zat."
"What?"
"Funny zat, not Gauguin. But I am his great grand nephew. Pah!"
Zach looked up sharp at Claude who nodded, still laughing away silently.
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"So," Zach began slowly and with deliberate puzzlement, "you're not actually Gauguin?" He
pointed his cigarette towards Claude's chest.
"No `iz great grandnephew," repeated Claude who stopped laughing and looked a little irritated.
Zach shrugged as if to say `that means?' He couldn't bear these conversations, I know someone,
I've seen someone, I'm related to someone, well what was that meant to say about them? The
next relative across was probably an accounts clerk and who’s to say you didn’t have those
genes?
Suddenly Claude burst out laughing again, a huge splutter, his neck disappeared between his
shoulders and he convulsed with wheezy giggles, holding the back of his hand over his half
coughing half laughing mouth. Zach laughed a little too.
"You're right. And you? Are you zomebody's grandson?" Claude waved an arm through the air.
"Nah. My parents were undistinguished. And me? I'm an artist who earns a living signing people
up to charity donations on the street." Claude wrinkled his brow trying to imagine this job. "You
know, one of those annoying people with a clipboard on the street? I'm one of them."
This brought a new bout of laughter from Claude. When he'd controlled his wheezing he
volunteered, "Yeah, I'm a builder on zis site in Hackney."
"Ha!" Better and better thought Zach.
“Sasha’s a decorator!” Claude said now really rocking with laughter.
"Painter decorator?”
Claude nodded gleefully. “Yeah, we’re all artists!”
“Well, I have to say, I haven't always done this, the charity work I mean. I had a proper job
once.”
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“Proper job?”
“Yup. I was selling rugs in Tibet."
"Heh heh, proper job. So Tibet? I love Tibet." Claude said this in such a way that the word love
seemed to actually mean love. "I was in Tibet, in Lhasa."
"No kidding! Me too, well for two years I was in Lhasa."
"Two years? You lived zere?" Zach nodded, amused by Claude's sudden animation. "Zis is
fantastique. What were you doing zer?"
"What was someone as middle class as me doing there?" Zach smiled at his ingenuousness.
Claude nodded, then gave out a `paf,' he took the point. "I was interested. Made lots of friends
and stayed. But after a while I thought I don't want to live and die in Tibet, something just inside
me." He hit his stomach. "So came back to London. Married with a young boy now,"
"Nah!"
"Sure."
"You can never tell huh? I mean ze way people look."
"Nope, you can't." They both paused examining each other. Zach didn't want to know more about
how he was perceived by Claude. "How about yourself?" he ventured. "Public school I expect.
Posh parents who you're rebelling against by working on a building site."
Claude went quiet for a moment. Then he shook his head and pulled up a faint smile. "My father
was a painter in fact, a vrai artist, he left. My mother died. Me, I want to paint."
"Ah."
"No one likes my paintings. Ze end.”
Zach said nothing for a bit, just small knowing head nods. "It's tough. Tough for all of us."
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Claude looked at Zach as if about to ask something then changed his mind. Zach cocked his
head, encouraging him.
"What are you doing with zis school?"
"School? Heh, it's not a school. Just the others all want to try and learn something, perhaps from
me, perhaps from eachother, or themselves. This is an artists' commune isn't it?"
"You sink you could show me something?" Claude asked the jam tart case.
Zach knew then that Claude must have been into the basement and seen his work and liked what
he’d seen.
"Who knows?" Zach looked over at Claude whose features seemed to have melted into someone
remarkably dignified, interested. "I've no idea if I can teach you anything. I mean you've got it in
your blood," they both smiled again. "I can't sleep anyway."
"What?"
"I can't sleep, so why not?"
"Now?"
"Sure."
******
Zach woke up with his arms wrapped under his head, leaning on the back of the chair that he
was sitting across. He rubbed his eyes. Claude was sound asleep on the floor. Just lying flat on
his back, no cover, his arms beside him in a shallow V shape. All over the floor were various
charcoal sketches of leaves, all captured what he'd call `the essence of a leaf'. They were good
leaves. Perhaps talent was really in the blood.
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So now his school was full. Zach stood up and washed his face in the sink. It was still early, just
gone 7am but he didn't dare go back to sleep. He was actually scared of being late for work. That
was a novel feeling. So many firsts, he mused. He got himself cleaned up, dressed and went out
to find fresh coffee and fresh air. Today he would sign up three people he said, clenching his fist,
discovering an unexpected will to succeed.
Soon after he was dancing about the street grinning at likely females with his target firmly in
mind. He had deliberately set himself a modest target so he wouldn't be disappointed. And he
wasn't. By the end of the day he'd signed up precisely three donors, all women. Perhaps this was
what it was all about. You worried all night and doubled your efforts by day, if only he'd known
what he was missing.
In the evening he went home without expectation but was taken aback by the relief he felt to find
Brown painting in his basement, obviously waiting for a lesson. Slowly the others drifted in and
Zach felt an equilibrium and even a satisfaction that he hadn't felt in a long time but it was the
unlikely return of Claude that gave him the most gratification.
When Claude appeared on the stairs, the atmosphere grew palpably tense amongst the others,
who were unaware of his previous night's tuition. Instinctively they braced themselves for a rant
or even a physical assault. He came down into the room, strode up to Bin who cowered. Claude
stared at him with his dead eyes then with a slightly sardonic glint let a smile spread over his
face, he picked up a brush from Bin's easel and waved it under Bin's nose. "Mind if I borrow
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zis?"
Bin shook his jowelly cheeks. Claude let out a mischievous chuckle, spun the brush between his
fingers and threw a smirk at Zach.
"Hey there, take a pew, oh and some paper," Zach handed over a pad of cartridge. Then he set
them to work on creating twenty different shades of yellow.
They soon became absorbed in their work, ignoring eachother as the class grew
a life of its own that superseded their fragile egos. Bin was making an effort with his tongue
pressed between his lips. Sasha had relaxed into an unusually absorbed mood. Her back was
curved, her movements were slow and fluid, she was, Zach felt, for the first time unaware of
what character she was presenting. There was no challenge, no feminism, no defensiveness and
no pretence because here she really was painting a picture. Brown was enthusiastic and
confidently striding across the room to change brushes, find some different paint, comment
openly on the others work. Zach stopped behind Claude, he wanted to give him some advice on
shading, but waited to be invited. Last night when it was just the two of them Claude hadn't
minded any criticism but in front of his peers who knows if he may flare up. As it transpired
Zach didn't need to say anything, just having Zach pause by him made Claude look for the error
himself and he found it. Without a word between them Claude's painting was improved.
Later that evening, after a supper that Zach had cooked and was actually edible, Claude passed
Zach his cigarette packet. "Would you like a dreenk?"
"Thank you Claude. Actually I have a date."
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"Alors, ees she prettier than Adrianne? I sink this girl is hot for you."
"No, not so pretty. It's my son."
"You see your son in the middle of the night?"
"Not usually. It's, um difficult at the moment."
Claude nodded, "I know zis difficulty," and he asked no more. They smoked together. The others
left one by one, then Claude stood up and walked out. Zach looked at the table. He was the only
one left, except for all the dirty plates. "Jesus, you can't win everything," he said to the mess. He
picked up the plates and stacked them in the sink.
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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Zach was standing on the gravel again, looking up at the dark house and the soft glow coming
from his wife's bedroom. She would be lying in bed, warm under the goose feather duvet,
reading. Reading what, he tried to remember what she was reading last time he had been on the
other side of the bed, he couldn't remember. He should remember, he thought. He should have
been interested.
Suddenly the front door opened. He took a step backwards into a shrub, the hall light lit up a
silhouette, the unmistakable Tiggy Winkle figure of Mrs C. She pulled the door shut and set off
down the path, tightening her coat round her and muttering something to herself in a happy sing
song tone.
"Psss," he hissed as she passed his shoulder. "Pssss....". He wasn't ready for the next movement
which was a flurry of bag beating at the leaves. Mrs C attacked the bush with a violence he
didn't know she had in her. He jumped forward with his hands in the air and urgently declared
himself. Too late, the handbag swung round into his face, something solid knocked him on the
chin and he fell to the floor.
"Ooh, ooh er, ooh," was all she said repeatedly, slapping rapidly at his cheeks.
“Stop! Stop hitting me!” Zach cowered under his arms.
"Oooh, Mr Elliot,” She pronounced each syllable, “Ooh I'm so sorry, that was me tin of
peaches," she said in a loud flustered voice.
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"Be quiet!" he yelped, then repeated in a whisper, "Quiet! If Layla finds out I'm here she'll go
mad."
"I'll say!" affirmed Mrs C, pursing her lips and looking rather pityingly at him.
"Look, look I know what you're thinking about, Mrs C, but really I’m glad to see you, to talk…"
Mrs C stood upright, squared her shoulders and pursed her lips, as if to say she wouldn't be put
upon by the likes of him.
"I'm sorry Mrs C, you know, about the money?" She gave a peremptory nod. "Really sorry, God
knows what came over me, fairly desperate circumstances,” Zach said as if that explained
everything. "Anyway, look I was going to give this to Kit, but now you're here," he pulled out an
envelope from his inside pocket. "That's a hundred, you know interest and all. It's for you to give
to Layla, with my sincere apologies." To pay the money back he could no longer afford to smoke
or buy a drink, but he could still eat. So poverty was healthy he mused. "Well, come on?" Zach
tried to wheedle a little smile out of Mrs C. He looked her up and down, rubbing his jaw, "I must
say you're mighty fit for a young lady,"
"Oh, you're a one Mr E," and he was relieved to see that old indulgent shyness back on her face.
Then she prodded him hard in his chest. "ere, it is though isn't it?"
"What?" Zach rubbed his rib, and returned to his sore jaw. "Amazing how we're all connected."
"Ah," Mrs C had an astonishing ability to continue a conversation that she had been having with
herself, with the next person she bumped into. "Did he tell you?"
"What?"
"I told Kit I'd finished. I thought he'd tell you. You know the package you asked me to send to
my Aunt Maria Helena Theresa so she could get it to your Miss Consuela at the Banco Primero."
"Yes," Zach was all attention, "You did it?
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"She did it,"
"She found Miss Consuela? Grief!"
"Easy. Like I said it's a small world. She knew her personally!"
"Three steps! That is a small world. Did she call control?"
"Did she call control?” Mrs C repeated in a deep posh voice, shaking her head theatrically,
"'course she did. Just like the instructions. And she filled in the forms, though she had to
photocopy a few."
"Why? There were at least five forms."
"Yes but it said each person who the parcel was handed to had to fill in a form. So my family are
quite excited about being involved in this project and Aunt Maria Helena Theresa filled it in and
whilst she was the one who actually knew Miss Consuela, or how to get hold of her anyway, she
gave it to my cousin Marie Lousie Helena Theresa because she wanted to, you know, and so she
signed a form, and then her husband wants to be involved so old Juan Carlo Carlolito fills one in,
he's not the sort to be left out, I tell you, there's nothing his poor wife can do that he doesn't want
to do better,"
"And how many other forms? I mean how many people did the parcel go through before Miss
Consuela actually received it?" Zach imagined the rather bulky package.
"Well there was Juan Carlo Carlolito's brother, his mum and then little Theresa and big Theresa,
she's big I can tell you, I don't know, shall we count them?" She put out er hand to tick off her
fingers. Zach rubbed his eyes in despair.
"Mr Elliot you can be sure you'll have more signatures than anyone else in this project and
they're all from Montevideo." Mrs C looked pleased as punch. Seeing Zach looking less than
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pleased, she shook her head. "You and your silly fads, Mr Elliot."
"Silly fads?" he repeated to himself, bruised.
"Yes, you really should concentrate on your work. Honestly it's like my little nephew, I ask him
to do one thing and he puts it off until the last minute, then he's run out of energy. Never does it!"
Zach guffawed with laughter and gave her hug under one broad arm. "Such wisdom!"
Mrs C bristled happily once again under his warm smile. "So how's you been. Any work?" She
looked up at him in an encouraging way.
"Oh a bit of this and that," Zach found himself hopping from one foot to the next like the small
boy she regarded him.
"You know I always loved yer artistry work. Don't you worry Mr Elliot, it's just like my old
shoes, one day your sort of painting will come back into fashion. You've just got to bide your
time and stick to what you like best." Then she actually pinched his cheek. "There's no other way
for it, stick to what's you like best, oh and do it, none of this messin' about. Believe me I know
and I'm a very happy woman." She gave him a wave and trotted off down the path. Zach fought a
strong urge to run after her and beg her to take him home and tuck him up with some hot milk.
He watched her shadow disappear out the front gate, then pressed himself back into the bush and
looked up at the windows.
Then suddenly with a whack, something really hard hit him on the shoulder, he ducked, pulling
his arms across his face in case something else should hit him. A shiny marble bounced along the
ground then a beam of torchlight shone in a sharp streak across the garden landing on his feet. In
a crouch with his arms shielding himself, he traced the source to Kit's window. The light went
out and Kit leant over the windowsill and waved. "I'm coming down," he pronounced in a
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whisper loud enough for the street to hear. Zach nodded and shook out his coat, looking about
him for neighbours, feeling exposed and far more suspicious than he thought reasonable for a
father visiting his son.
The torch light danced through the kitchen door into the glass studio, filling it with reflected light
like the extended flash of an explosion. Kit jogged across the gravel in his dressing gown and
slippers.
"I knew you'd come tonight."
"How's that?" He opened up his great coat to embrace his son. "Just had a feeling. I bought this
new torch, thought I'd spot you."
"Are you suddenly psychic or something?"
"No. Been up most nights."
“Oh Kit I’m sorry about all this, I’m sure Mum doesn’t want you to be losing sleep over it all.”
“Nah, not that, it’s the torch. It’s wicked.”
"Ah! Glad my arrival has been so enthusiastically anticipated. But what's with the ammunition?
That really hurt."
"That really hurt..." Kit copied his father in a more whiney voice, which earned him a soft clip
round the head. "Hee, hee. It's a catapault, we're meant to use rubber pellets but I haven't got any
left so I was using marbles."
"That's dangerous, you could take somebody's eye out! Don't do it again." Zach tried to sound
authoritative.
"Won't do. Hey Mum told me to tell her if you came round. Shall I get her?"
"No!" he said too quickly. I mean don't worry, we spoke before. So, how is Mum?" he asked
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tentatively.
"Mum's in such a bad mood with you. You did something last time you were here that really
pissed her off," Zach flicked the top of his son's head again for bad language and Kit corrected
himself, "Oh um annoyed her."
"Hmm, I have that knack. But I think I might have fixed that bit. I mean the recent annoying
thing I did." He gave a small uncertain laugh, then squeezed his son to his side. "Tell me about
yourself,"
"Not much to tell."
"Really? Star of the modern art world and not much to tell."
"Oh well it's nothing really. There's this man called Oscar who is soo crazy. You won't believe
what we're doing next. Anyway Mummy gave me the money to buy this new torch."
"Excellent torch. What are you doing next? Flickering candles?"
"No, but good one. Maybe we'll do that next." Zach was surprised to find he was quite pleased
that he might contribute to this cosy creative partnership between his wife and son. Kit traced the
torch beam across the sky; it was a powerful torch. "Misty sky." And quickly changing the
subject he pointed behind Zach. "What's that?"
Zach looked towards the brown paper wrapped parcel propped up against the tree.
"Ah!" He spun round and plucked it from the ground. "This is a present for your mother. Her
birthday present."
"Cool that you remembered. What is it?"
"I'll give you three guesses. It's flat, square and I'm a painter."
"A painting?"
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"100% for observation. What are you giving her?"
"I didn't know it was her birthday."
"It is, in three days."
"Something she likes. What does she like?"
"Hopefully what I've given her."
Kit stared at the flat brown parcel with a non-committal expression then his face lit up.
"I know! My friend Phil's sister is a Shiatsu masseur. I'll ask her to come round and give mum a
massage."
Zach stared at Kit and wondered how a ten year old could come up with such a perfect present.
He looked with some despair at his painting. This was a selfish gift. Something he loved, not
necessarily what she loved.
"That's a terrific idea. It's better than mine," he nodded dully at the package now in his hand.
"Awe, she'll love it. Have you got anything else?"
"No? Should I?"
"No. It's just if you take this away then she won't have anything." He shrugged and switched on
his torch again. He stuck the beam in the bottom of a bush, then swished it sharply round to the
top of a tree. Zach grunted, he wouldn't ask why he might take the painting away.
A breeze brushed by, the brown paper rustled under his arm. "Well here you go, give it to your
Mum on her birthday. Hang it somewhere nice, give her a surprise."
"Yeah, I'll hang it up and see if she notices it."
"Probably a bit like wallpaper to her, my paintings I mean."
"You're great Dad, better than Miss Clementine at school, I wish you'd teach us, you'd be better
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than her."
"Oh, do you think I'd make a good teacher?"
"If you put your mind to it and concentrated on the job," Kit mimicked Miss Clementine.
Zach gave his son another huge hug. Kit's hands dipped in and out of his father's pockets until
they came across the inevitable bar of chocolate. He stuffed his booty into the pocket of his
dressing gown. "Well be good,"
"Will do," said Kit shuffling off, hands wrapped round the paper parcel. "Night Kit,"
"Night Dad. I'll hang your painting somewhere good. It's bound to be better than our stuff."
"Do you think so?"
"Yeah!" he said with conviction and Zach thought thank God.
"See you,"
Zach waved to Kit and groaned to himself, "Oh my God, where's normality?" then headed back
down the drive.
********
As Zach put the key in the door a car pulled up outside the house. He opened the door and turned
round to see Adrianne leaning through the car window, saying or rather giving an intimate good
bye to someone. Zach inspected the car, very smart. It was a Mercedes of some sort, a sporty
saloon type thing. The interior was dark, he couldn't see inside its private luxury but he could
hear a deep bass throbbing through the leather interior. It was a sexy night-club on wheels.
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"Vulgar," he mouthed, while simultaneously a twinge of jealousy ran through him; that was
some gadget. He was pushing the door closed, but before he could silence the tempting purr of
the 300 horsepower engine Adrianne was calling out,
"Hey ho, hold the door. Zach!"
Any of her clever coyness had evaporated. She trotted past him into the kitchen and slung a small
bag across the back of a chair. Against the backdrop of dishes stacked in the cracked sink,
smeared with air dried Bolognese sauce, Adrianne could not have looked more out of place. She
wore perilously high heels, that long green wool cardigan, her red hair shimmered under the strip
light and her pink glossed lips shone. She gulped water carelessly out of an old enamel cup.
Suddenly fascinated he had to catch the picture.
"Wait!" he said, "Wait right there." By the time he had run back breathless with his charcoals and
pad Adrianne was perched on the side of the kitchen table smoking a cigarette.
He went round the other side of the table, which once again put the sink in the background.
"Glamour," he brushed charcoal over the sketch pad with expert swiftness.
"What?"
"This is glamour," mumbled Zach.
"Glad you think so." She blew a line of smoke across the room. "Too late though."
"Hmm," he had almost captured the outline.
"Too bloody late for you," Adrianne jabbed a finger at his shoulder. She sounded slightly drunk.
"I've a new beau. He's rich, sensual and in love."
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"With you I hope,"
"With me!" She leant forward and clipped his head with the back of her knuckles. When he
looked up and saw her haughty pout he felt another injection of energy; his fingers dashed faster
over the paper, a curl of the lip, the straight chin, elongated neck, her hair tipping down her back.
"Got it!"
"Good for you." She stubbed the cigarette out in a saucer. "Actually I am to be his muse for the
next line of Carynopolis fashion. He has shops in Milan, Paris, New York and Tokyo you know."
She put her hands on the table behind her and hung back her head.
"Well that's, just... wonderful," the last word only framed by his lips, he was concentrating hard
on the sketching. He needed to fill in as much detail as possible whilst she was in front of him.
"Yes it bloody is!" she said, stung that he wasn't listening. She slipped off the table and clipped
across the room dragging her bag along the floor. As she was about to open the kitchen door
Sasha burst in. In contrast to Adrianne she looked absolutely part of the furnishings in her
grubby combat trousers and grey hoodie hanging over a washed out t shirt. The t shirt blurted to
the world, "Look at a woman's mind not her tits!"
"Ooh the capitalist groupie pops in to bludge off the commune."
Adrianne's eyes narrowed and if anything could have fired out of them it would have been very
sharp. "And?" she said looking Sasha up and down with some condescension. Zach looked up
from his sketching. Sasha wasn't remotely intimidated, she was very sure of her ground.
"This I believe is an artists' commune. You," she jabbed a pudgy finger at Adrianne, "are neither
an artist or a communist. So don't you think you should make way for someone more in line with
the spirit of the place? Especially as you're now consorting with the super rich, gas guzzling, war
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mongering, chauvinists of the facile fashion world." Hands on hips her eyes swivelled round the
room, enjoying the agreement of an imaginary audience.
Zach was indeed impressed, not least by the number of three syllable words Sasha had strung
together, and looked with interest at Adrianne to see what she'd reply. But she was equally
undaunted.
"You're right!" she said, "I've no idea what I am doing here. I think I'll move up in the world.
And one thing you can be sure of, I'll be there before you and believe me you'll want to be there
too when you've grown out of your juvenile ideals and realised you can't paint for toffee unless
it’s a brick wall!"
With that she evaporated, leaving nothing but the door rattling on its hinges and a puff of sweet
fragrance in the kitchen.
Sasha tried looking menacingly at the door but its wooden solidity gave no quarter and Zach
could see Adrianne had hit a nerve. Slowly she turned round and seemed to notice Zach for the
first time. Sasha tossed a snarling look at the space Adrianne had occupied, and seemed to
assume Zach would be equally dismissive of Adrianne.
"I've more socialist principles than she ever had!" And punctuated her self-justification with,
"User!"
Certainly Zach thought she had a point, but also thought Adrianne had made something of an
astute observation herself. Most of the house mates would eventually aspire to more personal
ownership, or at least more money. He had eventually done so, he sure as hell wanted some
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money now, and he'd been more of a hippy than the lot of them, living in the Tibetan hills for
years.
But for all Sasha’s bombast he didn't like to see her upset, more out of a pity that she would have
hated, he said, “Well Sasha you probably do have more principles."
"I've real socialist principles. This place is all of ours, we share it and we share what we have
equally. She's not going to do that is she? The minute she's got more than us she takes off with
it."
"Oh would you have had her share her new salary?" Zach asked curious. Sasha slumped heavily
into a chair.
"But it's not fair to earn that amount of money and take up the space someone who has…who
with no money could use better.” She stumbled, embarrassed that she was confusing her words.
“Oh, you know!”
“I do know what you mean.”
"Shared ownership."
"Does that include the washing up?" Zach said brightly looking behind him. Sasha looked up
ready for a fight, then saw Zach was good humoured, and a smile cracked her own face.
"I hate washing up," she laughed at herself.
"It's bourgeois to have someone else wash up for you though, isn't it?"
"It's not like we're paying you!" She was quick!
"Paying for what?" Brown and Claude had walked in. "Doors slamming, yelling and screaming
what's going on?" Brown was eagerly interested.
"We were talking shared ownership, mutual contribution and that includes cooking, beer money,
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skills and um washing up." He nodded back at the filthy dishes piled in the sink.
"And that silly trollop is leaving!”
"Ach! Not the lovely Adrianne? She was so, decorative!" said Brown teasing Sasha, who
wrinkled her brutish face and looked even less appealing.
"Alors," was all Claude offered.
"She added nothing!"
"A wee bit harsh surely?"
"So, we were on the housework," Zach interrupted, rolling on the balls of his feet and tentatively
looking for a contribution.
"I could sweep the floor or something. But I'm not having a bloody rota!" spat Sasha.
"No, no rotas! God forbid!" He squeezed her shoulder, grinning round at the others and inviting
them to contribute.
"Why don't we throw zat lot away and start again?" said Claude looking with fear at the pile.
"This is an artists' commune." Sasha reminded the others in an exhausted sort of way. "We're
socialists so, we'll all help." Zach couldn’t believe the turnaround. Brown and Claude both gave
Zach a nod of silent respect. He’d made a difference!
"And don't forget we're all artists." Zach added feeling there had to be an upside to the house
resolution and at the same time cringing inside himself for his upbeat tone. He’d never had to
motivate anyone in his life. Did it all always feel this fake? Nonetheless he found it easy to get
into. "This place, this set up, allows us to paint and create, no matter how little we earn from our
work. We're artists because we love art and we're not just doing it to earn money." The group
nodded eagerly. "No more of this market trend rubbish.”
This made them all fidget.
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“Remember art by nature cannot be dictated by commercial forces. We are trying to express
ourselves, create something we think is beautiful, provoke a response. If you do that with a tin
can or a paint brush it doesn't matter, but we must do it with skill and passion, not because we
think we can sell it to some fool and make some money."
"For sure, we can do zat later," said Claude grinning through a puff of smoke, "when we've
proved ourselves artistes!"
"We are artists!" laughed Brown, fist in air, responding to a rally in his head. Sasha's face
melted, a bit unsure but keen not to be left out.
At this point Bin who had come in and was standing at the back tentatively put up his hand.
"Hey Bin how about that? We’re all artists!" Zach always had that feeling of dealing with a shy
student.
"Something, uh, something came in the post today." Bin said and fidgeted in his grubby shirt
pocket, from which he eventually pulled out a piece of paper. Whatever was in the paper, Zach
had the feeling Bin felt it had more control on his life than he ever did. As he couldn't bring
himself to say anything about the piece of paper Zach held out his hand and took it from him. He
scanned through the letter, blew air through his lips and looked up at the sheepish Bin.
"Congratulations," he offered, with a half smile.
"Thanks," Bin said, wringing an imaginary cap in his hand.
"Well Sasha, you've got another judgement here. Bin's won his court case. They’ve awarded him
£15,000 for his missing digit. So Bin you've got a cheque for £15,000 to bank?”
Bin nodded. The group turned to him with a mix of expressions, astonishment, incredulity and a
little awe.
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Sasha was the first to speak. "Good for you, you beat the bastards!" Bin nodded appreciatively,
then went quiet.
But before Sasha could suggest he split his payout with the commune Zach put the ball firmly in
Bin’s court.
"So what are your plans?"
"I'm going to buy a flat with me sister, she lives in Newcastle. Her boyfriend has a small shop
that I can buy a share in."
"You're going to be a shop keeper?" Brown exclaimed. Bin shook his head, wriggled then
nodded.
"This is a bloody artists' commune, doesn't anyone get it? Not a holding pen for lost users!"
Shouted Sasha. Zach put his hand over his eyes, in despair at her bluntness.
"Sorry," muttered Bin. "I'm not a very good artist."
"Then what's the bloody money for! You don't need five fingers to ring up a cash till!"
"Ah well he tried. It's difficult to be an artist." Zach turned to Bin with an encouraging smile.
"You did make some progress. I hope you won't forget what you've been learning?"
"I liked the classes, thanks. Just me.... well not very good."
"You had something Bin. That sock turned out all right didn't it?"
Bin blushed. After a moments silence Bin brushed through the expectant group and headed
across the kitchen.
"Unless anyone else was going to, I'll um, wash up?" Bin muttered. Zach's face broadened into a
grin. “Spoken like a true socialist.
"Hope you're not leaving too soon Bin?" Brown said patting his broad back.
"No, I'd like to stay a while. I'd like to work on that sock more... learn a bit more. It’ll be
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something to do at nights," he added vaguely.
"Anytime," Zach said, picking up a dishcloth he flicked it sharply on the table creating a cloud of
crumbs. "I'll dry."
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
"The Bank you want is it Luv?" the taxi driver leant back as he turned left into Coyle Street.
"Just there on the left," Layla said uncertainly, she was confused by what she saw.
"Right by this crowd of loonies? Wot are they? Moonies or somefing?"
"I don't know," said Layla staring bewildered at the hundred or so people seated cross legged on
the pavement outside the gallery.
"They're doing their oms," informed Kit.
"Just drive past and we'll get out at the top of the street."
"But "
"No Kit, I'm not sure about this."
"They're just, you know, meditating."
Layla thought the whole bunch must be exactly what the taxi driver suggested. She wasn't keen
to reveal that she was involved in creating the subject of their idolatry and definitely didn't want
to reveal Kit’s part.
"Gawd you see all sorts in this town. And this modern art lark, what a load of rubbish. I mean
`ow many of them could actually paint a picture? Who wants to look at stuffed dead horses and
bits of clanking metal."
"Actually," began Kit before Layla interrupted him and lugged him out of the cab. Layla handed
over a £10 note and pushed Kit along.
Just as Kit had guessed a low omm emanated from the crowd. Most had their eyes shut and were
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resting circled fingers on their knees. They wore Peruvian hats or blonde dreadlocks while others
chose black and shades of black. A small group in the corner were outstandingly well dressed.
They weren't sitting on the floor cross legged but looking on with a dry superior amusement as if
they were the ones to really understand the art. A woman in a green feather boa and cashmere
cocktail dress tottered up the street, her arms spread open and darling, darling spilling from her
mouth like a gaping fish blowing bubbles. Layla saw a side door. One of the caterers stood with
his foot wedging the door open, having a smoke. She ushered Kit towards it and said to the
caterer, "I'm setting up the show with Oscar," and he let them past.
"Grief, what is going on!" Layla said seeing Oscar skipping towards them, a thin black slash of a
figure in the otherwise cavernous white hall.
Kit wandered off through the gallery. He shrugged off his knapsack along with the brown paper
parcel, which he had strapped to the pack. His mother had picked him up from school in the taxi
and they had come straight to the gallery. He’d thought himself very cunning mumbling about
home work when she had remarked on the package.
"Layla, ah Layla there you are! Now you have to spend a little time with my good friend here,
Plato." Oscar urged Plato over with a flurry of bony of fingers. Another emaciated, black clad
individual sashayed over. He had a pen and small leather notebook in his hand, Layla's stomach
tightened. She hadn't considered a media interview.
"Plato Jones," he held out his hand. A large emerald type stone clunked against Layla's soft
palm. "I am thrilled to meet you.” He said thrill with a trill. “You are the only one with
privileged access to our latest ingenue!"
Layla flicked a hesitant smile on her mouth. "I am awfully sorry, but I really don't talk about…."
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"I have one question, well may be two."
"Please Layla, for the gallery," Oscar fluttered his eyelashes. Layla turned her unhappy face back
to Plato.
"Is it Prince William?"
"No!" said Layla promptly.
"Prince Harry?"
"No. That's two," she wagged a finger at him teasingly.
"Oh, you're so strict."
"Indeed. I am sorry, but I am not the artist and there's only so much I can say about the work. I
have brought it here and you have to make of it what you will."
"And we do. We do," Plato was keen not to be considered an artistic heathen. He folded one arm
round his waist, rested the other elbow on it and tapped his chin with the pen. Inspired he dashed
off a few notes. Still scribbling he said to Layla, "Is it an installation or a happening?”
"What you will," Layla repeated in light admonishment and walked over to the bar. The staff
were polishing the last glasses and setting them out in neat rows. "White wine, if you have some
please,"
"Certainly," the young man handed over the welcome chilled drink.
Layla sipped the wine quickly and set off through the gallery to find Kit. Her phone rang, she put
her glass on a wooden shelf and rummaged in her bag. A gallery steward let out a shrill yelp and
strode rapidly towards her. Layla was seized by a sudden panic, he was coming at her fast,
Moonies and loonies cast through her mind. He stretched out a hand by her head, she ducked but
he reached for her wine glass. "Sorry Madam, this is one of our permanent exhibits." Layla
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straightened her shirt. She felt silly then looked at the shelf. That was silly. It was attractively
angular and the wood she admitted had a pretty grain, but it was a shelf. She walked across the
gallery, otherwise the thing was screaming at her an invitation to put down her wine. Her phone
range, it was Jerry.
"Break a leg,"
"Where are you?"
"I'll be there. But I just want to say bon chance for the kick off."
"Thanks," Layla said dubiously. "This scene is ridiculous, I've been told off for putting my wine
on a shelf that's apparently a work of art, there's a crowd of omming maniacs outside waiting to
worship Kit's homework and Kit, oh no, Jerry I've got to go!"
"What Layla?"
"Sorry, I'll explain later. What on earth does he think he's doing!" She shoved the phone into her
handbag, almost at a run she went back across the huge hall, Kit who had now placed a painting
on the precious shelf.
"Layla," Oscar was walking towards her and grabbed her arm just before she reached Kit.
"Ready? Show's on, he's here."
"Who?" Layla looked back at Kit adjusting the canvas, realising Oscar hadn't noticed and
wondering what he would do when he did notice, let alone what the gallery steward would do.
"Surprise! I move, I shake and hustle in this town." He gave a shrill elated laugh and pointed to a
corner door, the focus of everyone’s attention.
A small group was bustling about some particular person at their core. They moved in one
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homogenous mass, like an underwater creature, host and parasites. "Who is the absolutely most
influential man in the contemporary art scene?"
"Don't know," said Layla completely distracted by Kit's exploits. He was carefully centering the
painting.
"Don't be ridiculous. Reclusive and rich. Changes the world with a flick of his cheque book?" At
that moment this peon of influence was before them, surrounded by a tight entourage of five
sharply dressed individuals. On the long walk down the gallery Layla observed that four of them
wore rather distracting designer glasses and all wore what she regarded as interesting shoes, all
so individual, all so the same.
The expert moved towards the ‘Mistique’ exhibit and watched the mist billow with his approach.
He stood back and the group about him moved back like an ebbing wave. Layla observed,
fascinated. Even she found the sheer energy of attention set on this ephemeral entity, imbued it
with something mystical and a creative value of its own. The way the mist rose before them; it
all looked spiritual, uplifting and significant. A silence descended and the guru circled the
exhibit. Then he tipped his head and walked slowly across the hall. Everyone followed his
direction, thinking he was moving away to take another perspective. It was difficult to know
where his gaze fell as he also wore the de rigueur dark lenses but soon they realised something
else completely had caught his eye.
He was heading for the far wall to the artistic shelf and where Kit had placed his canvas. Oscar
had finally realised their objective. Horrified he beckoned to one of the group, shaking his head
vigorously. The girl whose eye he caught, looked through her spectacles at him with incurious
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superiority.
"That's not my exhibit. It's not Anonymous!" he hissed.
"Really?" she said, suddenly her cool slipping, immediately fearing an embarrassing scene and
hissed back, "Who is it then?"
"No idea!"
"Another Anonymous?"
"No, I mean Christ knows whose it is. The bloody shelf is Dankin’s but the painting….it's not
one of ours!"
The girl acted quickly, and whispered something to the group. They all hung back, hoping to
arrest the attention of the expert. Someone nearly touched his sleeve but another brushed his
hand away smartly. The expert moved forward alone.
Oscar edged over to Layla and whispered to her in an irritated flat tone, "What is that?"
"I have no idea." Layla said nervously, looking around for her son.
“You were over here, you and your son, it’s yours.”
“I’m sorry, I really don’t know…”
Now the expert was standing in front of the canvas and without a doubt taking a good long look
at it. The entourage changed their mind, and decided to follow suit. They moved as one across
the hall stopping a polite distance behind him and furrowed their brows with interest. The gallery
steward hopped about on the periphery, panic stricken having missed something being placed on
the art work. He was oblivious to the artist’s happy anticipation of just such response. For
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Dankin The Shelf really came in to its own originality when people tried to stop things being
placed on it.
"He's engaged," one whispered in adulatory tones.
Oscar examined the canvas from his own distance. It was a painting, a plain no nonsense
painting of a reclining nude. He hadn't seen anything quite so traditional in years. It looked alien
to him, particularly in this empty gallery and he took fright.
"Nothing to do with me!" he yelped. The eminent turned round waved a limp hand towards the
canvas. "Trust me, it's a whim of Layla's," he pointed haplessly at Layla who flashed a glance at
Kit.
Kit just shrugged. The only person who really scared Kit was his German teacher. Layla smiled
apologetically at the group and ruffled Kit's hair, perhaps a little too hard. He leant up to her ear
and whispered, "Dad says happy birthday."
"What?" she whipped her hand away.
"Dad says happy birthday," Kit pointed at the painting.
"Dad?" she mouthed. Kit nodded. There was no point in asking her grinning son to explain this
very awkward surprise.
She walked a few yards closer to the painting, gaining a sight of the subject through the gaggle
of eager heads. Actually the reclining nude appeared startlingly beautiful in relief against the
massive white backdrop. Energy leapt out of the canvas, details shone out, light fell on the small
bone of an ankle, the curl of the pearly nails. This was painted with a passion, a passion that she
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hadn't seen in Zach's work in a long time. She walked across the gallery to take a different view.
A warm glow spread through her, a unique sensation, as she recognised a thing of complete
beauty. Its evident loveliness heightened by the contrast to a puff of mist and a wooden shelf.
She stepped closer and leant forward, her eyes traced the graceful fingers, loose, relaxed; the pale
arm, each freckle, the tousled hair and the face. She blushed with a creeping recognition.
Tentatively she heard the group muttering praise for the painting. The expert gave one nod and
the praise escalated.
"To me this painting extracts the very corn out of that corny but so apposite phrase `beauty is in
the eye of the beholder," pronounced one of the entourage.
"You’re absolutely right as usual. This is the artist's inner response to what they considered
beautiful," a man with a New York accent offered.
"Someone has conveyed all that emotion, all that sensitivity and brought a thing of genuine,
exceptional beauty into the world,"
"Unlike Lucien," added another. “No boils or blemishes on that body.”
"Here is something no one else would have seen. No one will have seen that emotion or that
response. It is a unique emotional record.”
"Mum," Kit was tugging her arm. "I think Oscar wants you," Oscar was glaring, trying to
physically drag them back to ‘Mistique’ with the power of a stare.
Layla wiped a tear off her cheek, "Thank you Kit," she sniffed, "I mean for my birthday present."
Kit held her hand without saying anything. "I love it, I'll keep it forever."
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"And what about Dad?"
Layla thought a future happy harmony might be possible.
"Can we please focus on Man's Agitation," Oscar squeaked waving furiously at them.
The expert arched a brow and was walked quietly back to the mist. Layla stood by Oscar and
gave him an encouraging smile. The girl with blonde, chin length hair in a sharp parting leant
over to talk to her boss. Then she walked back to Oscar. "So what is the price?"
"Well it is more than a piece of art, it has become something of a cult, we are talking at least
£10,000." Oscar trotted out his set piece.
"A cult?"
"Yes, have you seen the crowd's out there, they come and om and contemplate. This thing is so
much bigger than what you see." Oscar's wave encompassed ‘Mistique’.
"You, I believe, are talking about this piece, Man's Agitation?" The blonde said querulously.
"Precisely,"
"We are interested in the nude.”
Oscar looked over at the expert who was gazing at the blank wall and up at the ceiling as if he
couldn't care less about a thing. His hands folded behind him, thumbs winding slowly around
each other.
"The painting is very special isn't it," Layla slipped forward, seeing Oscar had been silenced with
shock. "It is by Zach Elliot, one of the newest artists on the scene, but very experienced. I was
interested to take on some new `old' blood if you know what I mean. That piece is £4,000."
"Your card," the girl held out her hand. “We’ll buy it.”
“But I’m not sure it’s for sale.”
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“Everything is for sale.”
Layla now tried to evaluate what Zach would prefer; for her to keep this beautiful eloquent
present or for him to take the most important step any artist could aspire to in the contemporary
art world.
"Give me your card. I'll have the painting sent over with an invoice."
"That will be fine." The girl slipped two polished nails into an invisible pocket and elegantly
proffered a card. Layla plucked it from her and dropped it into the pocket of her handbag. They
exchanged faintly appreciative looks that, in the case of the blonde, implied a shared an
impatience for vacuous gallery owners of the male variety.
“Layla," she said to the girl holding out her hand.
"Just Layla?"
"Just Layla," she couldn't resist.
"Oh could you cover the painting please?"
"Cover it?"
"Yes, we don't want anyone else to see it. You see he feels that’s its most valuable attribute."
"Yes," said Layla, dubiously.
"Something other eyes have not feasted on."
"There is nothing quite like standing in front of a beautiful painting," the expert said to the blank
wall. Everyone craned forward for more pearls, then he walked towards the side door, his
entourage swarmed around him and they left as one.
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A silence filled the exhibition space. All eyes settled on the closed door. Layla turned slightly to
Kit and winked.
"That's it!" yelped Oscar. They all jumped. "He's single handedly changed the whole
contemporary art market. It’s all ruined. I'll never be able to sell another conceptual construct
again."
"Oh I'm sure you will," said Layla soothingly.
"People just buy what he's buying. If he's not buying it why should they?"
"Because it's art?"
"Art!" he shrieked, "Anonymous’ work is imploding into its own abstraction, suddenly it looks
little better than the fruits of a six year old’s craft morning!"
"A six year old couldn’t do that," Kit sang out.
"What?" Oscar whirled round on the young boy, with a venomous sneer.
"He couldn't do it,"
"He couldn't?" Oscar repeated in a voice pitched high with exasperation .
"I know he couldn’t. I'm eleven."
"And I’m 38." Oscar said tersely, one hand on his hip the other hovering as if about to do
something violent.
Layla yanked Kit away with a sudden violence, he tripped and she had to catch him.
"So a six year old could do this? Can I quote you on that?" Plato asked Oscar ingenuously.
"No you absolutely, categorically bloody cannot!"
"Shall I let the public in now?" An assistant enquired.
"Oh my God!" shrieked Oscar.
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Layla felt sorry for him. “Oscar, bring them in. The piece is still valid, it's as valid for as long as
anyone looks at it."
"It is as valid...." Plato repeated, taking notes. "I like that. Meanwhile ‘the one who knows’ felt
the painting was more valid the less people look at it. This is wild. Love it!" The happy journalist
went off composing his excited review.
Oscar screwed up his lips, then whipped round to his assistant. "All right. Bring them in."
The crowd shuffled in, murmurs of excitement propelling them along like a buzzy cloud. They
approached the exhibit then swelled around it, leaving space for it `to breathe' as one said.
Oscar watched them closely, for their response and Layla watched Oscar. There were some stern
faces amongst them, probably trying to look intelligent, he thought. “Asses,” he mouthed. After
a few minutes one person sat down and crossed their legs, and like a switch his mood changed.
"Oh goodie, it's happening again," he whispered with relief. In a private trance the cross-legged
visitor began to `om'. A few people giggled and moved away, then two or three others joined in;
curling their legs beneath them and meditating on the centre piece which billowed with life as a
person passed or took their seat before it.
"It’s going to be fine Oscar," Layla squeezed a thin smile out of Oscar. He held a polite
expression for her but he was no longer her best friend.
In one corner of the gallery a shrill voice split the atmosphere. A woman cried excitedly, "This
is it!" She was dressed impeccably, a neat Channel dress, a lady who lunched, with a tiny spec of
red paint in her hair. "Darling, This Is It," she announced into her mobile, which she now turned
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towards the painting, taking a picture. Then she tapped a few keys and put the phone back to her
ear, "He bought it, yes." Oscar winced. "I'm telling you no one has ever heard of the chap.... No...
no... I'm sure, he paid £20,000 for it. Yes... Zooey or something beginning with Z, I'll see what I
can do. Kiss, kiss," she snapped the phone shut and looked about, her head twitching like an
inquisitive secretary bird. Oscar hastily instructed the staff to get on with removing the painting
from public view.
"Wait!" the loud woman protested. "I need details!"
"Can I help you?" Layla enquired.
The woman stretched her dry cheeks into a smile, "I hope so my dear."
And so Layla sold her second Zach Elliot, this one a private commission for £20,000.
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CHAPTER NINETEEN
Zach had just finished his portrait of Adrianne. He hadn't even moved from the kitchen. He put
the canvas onto the table, rubbed his eyes, then turned his wrist to see the time. He shook his
watch, amazed that he had been drawing for three hours non stop. Restless he stood up and
stretched, ideas colliding in his mind. Then he remembered he had to be at Baker Street by 8am
in the morning, with his clipboard and cheery smile. "Oh God," he groaned. He needed the time
to paint.
He picked up a glass for some water; there was a grimy smear on the rim. He chose another but
had to tip it up and knock out a dead insect. He turned on the tap, gave the vessel a miss and
splashed water into his mouth. He shuddered at the mess around the sink. In spite of everyone's
new resolve it was clear housework was none of their forte.
"Hey," Claude walked in. "Can't sleep?"
"No, working."
"Working, working," Claude repeated, glancing at Zach's portrait. "Yez, you're right. Zis is
excellent work. This tells you everything about Adrianne, no? Even the seductive way she talks,
well when she wants something. Clever. Working," he tapped his head and left the kitchen,
inspired to work himself.
Zach retreated to his basement, dreaming as ever of the bedroom he had left behind, his stone
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light, music, clean smells, Layla and Kit's warm bony shoulders that he loved to hug. As he came
off the bottom step an entirely different smell hit him. Rather sweet but sickly. Ever so faint. He
put the canvas on the easel, opened a window and looked up at the sky. He hadn't turned on the
lights and the night was quite clear, but the city glow had absorbed all the stars. Where was it
ever truly dark? Not on this continent of electric consumerism. He pulled his head back in and
looked about at the miserable surroundings he'd come to be grateful for. He was truly the
impoverished artist, in his underground garret.
He took all his clothes off and tossed them on the chair, feeling oddly exposed undressing in
what was now his classroom. He pulled back the duvet and fell onto the bed, then in one fluid
movement of shock he sprung off it; shivering, gulping and manically rubbing his skin. He had
touched something; something horrid, cold, furry. Instinctively revolted by this hidden thing he
was making involuntary gasping sounds, it was a gut response, total revulsion. His whole body
shuddered, as if trying to rid himself of the sensation then spasmodically he jumped up and
down, shaking himself all over. Finally he stole himself to turn on the light. Peering slowly over
the bed from the greatest possible distance his worst fears were confirmed. Moaning loudly
again, he rushed to the sink and scrubbed his hands, then grabbed a towel, wetted it and
frantically washed down his side where he had made contact with the dead rat. All the while
gulping with the shock. He dressed, shaking uncontrollably, discovering the real meaning of
colly wobbles. He grabbed his holdall and tossed his sketchpad and charcoals into it. The
painting of Adrianne he shoved into a bag, scribbled a note, stuck it on the bag and left it on an
easel. He headed straight out of the house.
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He thought he had no idea where he was headed, but with a few passing thoughts of soup
kitchens and the fact that he realized he would never be able to financially support his wife, his
now furious wife, he found himself on the Piccadilly line. He was especially grateful that he’d
lost his passport in his holdall’s zip up pocket the previous year.
At Heathrow he looked up a flight for Kathmandu, which was off the next morning. He took
another brief trip on the Piccadilly line, stepped into town for an hour and returned, without the
watch Layla had given him on their first anniversary. He bought the flight with all the cash he
had apart from £42. He had a moment of anxiety when he considered what he'd actually do when
he stepped off the plane the other end, but encouraged himself with the thought that he was no
worse off than when he'd arrived there twenty years before. In fact he had about the same
amount of money in his pocket then. He'd buy a rug or something and sell it. Buy another one.
Somehow naive eighteen year olds seemed to find such expeditions easier, but he'd do it, at least
he knew he could do it. Plus he'd get dinner on the plane, so that was one less meal to worry
about.
He looked up at the flight board with multiple chequered times flicking over and for a moment
felt himself standing there, doing the exact same thing in his younger skin. What progress he’d
made. What actually had he achieved in those passing years? Kit. He’d achieved Kit. Or perhaps
Layla had achieved Kit. He laughed, at himself, no wonder Layla threw him out.
Lying across three plastic seats with his eyes closed he managed to blank out the noise about
him. Announcements echoing in some distant cortex of his mind, the higher pitch of a mother
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berating a child, men talking in an urgent monotone about something important to them. Zach
blanked everything, he no longer cared, he just wanted to see a sky with stars in it.
*****
Brown and the others kept looking down the stairs wondering when they’d be having their next
lesson. After two days they left it to Brown to keep a look out for Zach, but it finally dawned on
him that the school was not resuming when a strangely repellent smell was the only sign of life
in the basement. He’d hardly bothered with it at first, it was just something slightly sickly in the
air, lots of things smelt strange in that house. But it grew stronger and on the third morning it hit
him when he had only come two stairs down into the basement. He held his breath and traced the
smell to the bed. Not feeling quite courageous enough he spun about and went in quick search of
Claude.
The two of them descended into the basement, pinching their noses now, against the stench.
“Woah, I know none of us are keen on housework but how could he live like this?”
“I don’t think he is living like this,” Brown said ominously.
Bracing themselves they approached the bed. Brown indicated Claude should pull back the
covers which were crumpled into some anthropomorphic shape. Claude raised his eyes at Brown
as if he were a coward and leant down to pull the duvet, he flinched, stepping back, then swiftly
reached forward, yanked and jumped back in one movement. The two of them let out yelps,
Brown actually screamed, Claude grabbed Brown to calm him but this made him jump about
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more in an extreme squeamish reaction.
“Ok Ok! Shit, at least it’s not him!”
“Some comfort,” Claude cringed backwards.
Looking at the furry smelly corpse Brown knew Zach had gone for good. And despite the shock,
after the many horrific images that had flicked through their minds, the festering rat was a relief
to both of them.
He looked about and realised that Zach had actually packed up. His brushes weren't there and nor
was his holdall or small amount of clothes that usually hung over the chair. Brown noticed the
plastic bag on the easel, he read the address taped on it.
“What’s zat?”
“A picture. There’s a name and address.”
“You going to sort zat?”
“Sure. I imagine he wants this taken round this Layla. It’s a great pic isn’t it. ”
“Yeah, yeah,” Zach pulled Brown’s arm who grabbed the bag and picture and they both hurried
upstairs. Claude headed straight for the bathroom in some desperate need for a shower.
"What's that?" Sasha asked in her blunt way as Brown walked into the kitchen.
"Something Zach left behind."
"Left behind? He's gone somewhere?"
"Yup. Hadn’t you noticed? No art school.”
“I’ve been busy bloody working haven’t I? Anyway, what do you mean gone? Just like that?”
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“Yup.”
“Another bloody one huh. Uses us when he has no home, then things pick up and he just flits off.
Thanks very bloody much Zach. Tosspot!" she said and headed for the front door.
"Well yer'll no prefer the thing that's taken his place!" Brown grunted after her.
Brown was surprised to see the beautiful property, in the well respected North London Street,
just half a mile from their commune. He was even more surprised by the beautiful woman who
answered the door.
"Hi," said Brown forgetting himself for a moment and staring. What was it about Zach that he
had imagined a shabbier background instead of this large house, inhabited by an intelligent
beauty who may or may not be related.
"Can I help?" Layla smiled at the bare astonishment her appearance seemed to be making.
"Aye, sorry," he shook his head at his own stupidity. "You know Zach?”
“Of course I do, he’s my husband.”
“Yer, he’s yer husband?”
“Sure, well he might be, depends?”
“Well he left this at home, I mean our home and it had yer address on it. I’m guessing it’s for
you. I wrapped it up.”
“Thank you. That’s good of you to bring it over, awfully kind,” said Layla. The very
graciousness of her response seemed to melt Brown further. He walked backwards waving
goodbye. “Oh, do wait. Say thanks to Zach, but I need to know where he is, I really do have to
talk to him.”
"Ach I cannae tell yer that! I mean he's gone."
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"Gone where?"
"Nae idea. He ran off because of the rat I think."
“Rat?”
“Anyway, hope it’s something nice,” he nodded at the picture, “he's a talented painter isn't he."
Layla stared at the parcel, wondering about the rat and Zach’s absence, and she forgot to agree
with the man.
Layla looked up when she heard his feet scrunch on the gravel drive, “Thanks!” she called and
wondered where and how Zach had become acquainted with a Scottish leather clad biker. She
turned to the house musing over the package. So where had Zach gone? In fact where had he
been? She took one more look at Brown’s receding back. He’d had a sincerity about him, a
quality she might have warmed to herself and he’d obviously been friends with Zach and also
thought very well of his work. Perhaps after all he had served his time. He’d knew how to earn a
living finally, even if he didn’t know it himself. She was looking forward to the painting, the last
one was definitely a hymn of love to her. Surely he’d learnt his lesson and for sure he’d become
a better artist. Yes he could come home.
Eager to see what Zach had sent over she lay it on the kitchen table and tore apart the paper. A
girl, a sultry girl, she thought and familiar. As recognition dawned she lowered herself into a
chair. At first she tried to fathom what peculiar joke the painting was meant to make. Apparently
he found the girl very alluring. Darker more nauseating thoughts came to mind, creeping in with
suspicion.
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Who the bloody hell was Adrianne, why was she working for her and why was Zach painting
sexy pictures of her, not any old girl but Adrianne and then deliberately sending them to the wife
he was meant to be so desperate to get back to? And as for Adrianne! Was Zach Adrianne’s
married boyfriend? Was this some sort of Kafkaesque denouement in her life? She stood up and
walked backwards staring at the prostrate portrait on the table.
An hour later she was still tearing about the house, cleaning compulsively, in an effort to use up
her energetic fury, whilst constantly returning to look at the painting and renew her jealous
anger. Then the phone rang, she picked it up and listened to the static of an international line, she
took a deep breath and the moment she heard Zach's voice, as she knew it would be, she told him
to go to hell and slammed the phone down.
At the other end, 15,000 miles away, in a small mountain village where he had waited to use the
phone for two hours Zach was left listening to the furious expletive echoing in his ears and then
the finality of the dialling tone. He stared up at his sky full of stars and took heart. Something
had gone wrong, but in time he'd fix it. He was philosophical now, and he felt he had time, more
than hours and weeks, maybe years. But time would finally bring him and Layla and Kit back
together and if it didn’t, then so be it. Yes he was becoming truly zen. Omm he said to himself
and shrugged his shoulders.
******
Jerry saw Layla crossing Piccadilly before she spotted him. Never was a woman so changed he
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said to himself. She looked ten years younger. Always handsome she now knocked spots off any
dusky Italian model, it was more than her dark looks but her bearing. She was so damned relaxed
and confident. He’d just about had enough of playing the loyal friend, to Layla and Zach.
"Hey," he called out. She turned her dark glasses towards him and her broad smile.
Jerry stood up and walked the few paces towards her, then after kissing cheeks he lead her back
to his table. It was chilly in the air but the sun shone brightly on the spot he'd picked. He handed
her the coffee he'd already bought her.
"Now there's a gentleman,"
"No sugar,"
"Correct!"
"I remember everything you like,” Jerry smiled and Layla almost blushed. “So tell me the
news?"
Layla grinned broadly, almost embarrassed by her good fortune.
"Come on,"
"The last two pictures sold for £10,000 each,"
"Phew no kidding?"
"No kidding. And I received another two this morning."
"From Tibet?"
"From Tibet. He still has no idea that he's supporting Kit and me in grand style.
"Well let him sweat!"
"Really Jerry I have no choice anyway. I've no idea where he is. Just that the parcels come
postmarked Lhasa."
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"Is it that hard to track him down?" Layla looked at her hands and shook her head with a careless
laugh. "I mean an English artist in Lhasa. Are there that many?"
"More than there used to be," she shrugged. Then she let out a spontaneous laugh.
"What?"
"Remember his bloody project? His one step removed thing?"
"Oh that project, yes."
"Well it worked, dear Mrs. C..." then she shook her head, irritated by another thought, “That
Adrianne was certainly a few steps less removed than I’d have liked.”
“So that’s the reason that you haven’t looked for him?”
Layla smiled. Mona Lisa Jerry thought.
"So if you did actually have an address what would you do?"
Layla looked up at the sun. "Well I suppose it's been six months since he disappeared and that
chap brought round Adrianne’s picture.”
"And I thought you were all squared with the girl?"
"Sure, sure but you didn’t see that painting. It really annoyed me, more than his old expensive
shopping trips."
"Zach's an artist. Do you think Van Dyke loved his beauties? I think he was just drawing
Adrianne. Not really our type if you think about it?"
"Probably not." Layla flicked the table. "I had this odd conversation with her. She couldn’t
remember who I was talking about when I asked about her old boyfriend, the artist,"
"Well I’m sure Adrianne’s have short memories, unless it’s important to remember that is."
"And she’s married! Mrs Carynopolis with her fab Jag and couture clothes. Even her own
minder. My young account exec."
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"I believe she wanted to be an artist at one point…"
"Well she has no interest in art now you know, not unless she’s buying it for one of her many
white walls. It's zoom zoom zoom," Layla's hand shot through the air like a rocket.
“No persistence, which is probably the measure of a true artist, someone who is driven on in the
face of constant rejection. Hones their skill.”
“Do you really think that?
“Well if you believe in what you do and have a passion…”
“Unless you’re deluded.”
“Possibly.”
"Anyway nothing happened but get this, she went on about what an old woman he was, always
trying to get everyone to wash up and putting his pinny on…"
Layla’s animation was so beautiful. Jerry loved her.
"It’s true! See it worked. Throw him out in the world and he's learnt to wash up, live spartanly
and produce some great work. Oh and finally to support Kit and me in a style to which we would
love to become accustomed! What do you make of that?"
"Well we're all set I suppose?” And it was more of a question, but Layla made no answer. Jerry
sighed, “I'm dealing with paint rather than fingernails and hair thanks to a momentous shift in the
market due to yours truly, Kit's got a new bike and you…you’re looking more radiant than ever.”
Layla shrugged with a natural modesty. “Life's sweet." Jerry concluded. He caught the attention
of a passing waiter and scribed a bill in the air.
"I guess life is sweet," Layla said, unable to add anything to the happy ending. She reached for
the bill.
"No, let me get this.” Jerry said. “Who knows when I'll next be able to treat you.” Which
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sounded to Layla unlikely given they were meeting at least twice a week.
He handed the waiter some money, then taking a pen out of his inside pocket he wrote something
on the bill. "Have to get going, I'll see you soon." He bent down for a kiss then sauntered off,
slower perhaps more meditative than the usual Jerry. We're all walking differently Layla said to
herself. Half way across the courtyard he turned round and waved, "Bon voyage!" he called.
Layla looked quizzically at him and saw he was pointing to the table. He waved again and
disappeared from view. Layla looked at the table and saw the bill with his note on it. She flipped
it over then picked it up to read it properly. It said `The Happy Bedsit Lhasa.'
Layla smiled to herself, she felt warmer and warmer in the sun. She looked up for Jerry, but he
was gone.
*****
Zach was sitting at his table turning a warm cup of tea between his fingers, watching the crush of
activity around the market place. He brought out his sketch book and searched the crowds for a
likely scene. Someone who might grab his attention, a subject.
“Hey Sir," Nam sat next to Zach and flicked his shoulders with an envelope.
“Hey Nam, how you doing?”
“Good. It was very nice rug,” he grinned broadly, baring four or possibly five brown teeth.
“They very happy clients.” Nam put the envelope on the table.
"Xie xie," Zach said but left the envelope on the table, too busy scanning the scene before him.
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So Nam picked it up and shoved it purposefully in Zach's shirt pocket.
"You work. Come and see us tonight. Your old friend Karl and his wife will be there.”
"I remember. I wouldn't miss it Nam. See you tonight. "
Nam slipped away from the table as quietly as he’d arrived.
Zach continued to search the crowds for a subject to fix in his mind. A large woman in
elasticated shorts and lime green t shirt was annoyingly magnetic. He wanted the Tibetan faces,
the glints of hammered silver and blue stone. A young boy's face emerged from the crowd. He
couldn't see his expression from where he was sitting but his forward posture showed he was
searching hard for something, and whatever he was searching for was not in the market. He was
interesting, there was so much action about him and yet he was oblivious. Something else
entirely on his mind. He passed by the bells, clothes and leather wares, paying no attention, only
once pausing to turn and tug at the hand of a tall graceful figure weaving through the crowds to
keep pace with him. Zach stood up, those faces, he'd seen flash through his mind a hundred times
a day. He lurched forward too fast and knocked the cup off the table, it coursed through the air,
then smashed to the stone floor. The noise caught their attention but Zach heard nothing only the
boy's ecstatic shout, "Dad!" Zach felt relief wash through him, love and relief. Thank God, Mrs
C and clean sheets here I come.
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